That Ache
by Aegroto Dum Anima
Summary: He had to do something to relieve that ache. Warnings: deals with self harm, some language. Ch 10 up! COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

That Ache  
Chapter One

Disclaimer: Everything is still mine. But you can all still borrow it.

Author's Note: Can take place any time. Please do drop a note; good, bad or ugly.

Summary: He had to do something to relieve that ache. Warnings: deals with self harm; some language.

* * *

Dean sauntered into the dark room, tossing the key to the ratty table. The motel was one of the skuzzier they'd stayed at and he wished he'd lingered at the pub for another beer – or two. Maybe if his head was buzzing his skin wouldn't crawl at the thought of kicking of his boots, lest bare feet brush the carpet. 

"Sam?" he rubbed at his forehead.

Sighing, Dean clicked on a lamp, looking down at his fingers before wiping them on his jacket. He noticed the light on in the bathroom and called, "Dude, hurry up. I gotta piss."

He'd spent the last couple hours at a trucker bar up the street, putting back Coors (the silver bullet – he'd laughed at that since he was a kid) and wishing there was a woman in the place that weighed less than three hundred pounds.

Sam had asked for some time alone, which was more than fair. They lived a claustrophobic lifestyle, moving from the car to small motel rooms. Everyone needs some privacy.

Dean slithered out of his jacket, pausing before tossing it over the chair back – it was dirty anyway.

"Sam, seriously, man. C'mon."

He crossed the room, knocking on the bathroom door, frowning when it swung open, "Sam?"

Dean's eyes flashed wide, heart clenching. His brother sat on the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled up, blood oozing from the long series of cuts tracing up his forearms, a viscous knife clutched in his shaking hand.

"Sam!" He moved to spring on his brother and wrest the weapon from his grasp.

"Don't," Sam ground the blade against wrist, halting the elder in the doorway. "Don't…"

Dean held his hands out non-threateningly. "Sam… What are you doing?"

The younger raised his eyes, face smeared with tears and blood from his fingers. "I deserve to bleed…"

Dean could barely hear for the pounding of his heart in his temples. "You _are_ bleeding…"

Sam laughed dryly, the blade biting into his skin.

The elder took a cautious step forward, "Sam, give me the knife."

"Stay back!"

Dean noticed the glazed look in his brother's eyes, the way the tremors in his fingers were forcing the blade deeper into his flesh. "Sam…" he held out his hand. "Please, just give me the knife…"

Sam shook his head, hot tears stinging his cheeks. "Stay back… Just keep back…"

"Fuck, Sammy! Did you ask for time alone so you could kill yourself?"

The younger's hands shook harder at the question. His jaw worked vainly, no words forming.

"Sam, it's okay…" He inched forward. "It's okay…"

"I…" he shook his head. "No. I…"

"It's okay…"

"No!"

Dean saw every sign the slash was coming before it occurred: the clenching in Sam's arm, the flash in his eye. He leapt forward, tackling his brother hard to the grimy floor, grabbing his wrists. The elder felt bad for a single instant at Sam's soft cry of pain as the knife was twisted from his hand, the guilt vanishing as Dean's grip became slicked with blood.

"Sam! Sam, it's okay!"

The younger struggled frantically, Dean maintaining his hold, managing to pin Sam's back against his chest.

"Sam!"

Throwing his head back, Sam cracked his skull into Dean's face, trying to scramble free when the elder balked in pain, but unable.

Gritting his teeth, Dean focused his will on restraining his thrashing brother, his hands nearly slipping free from blood-slicked skin.

At length, Sam fell still, body exhausted. He sagged back against his brother, breaths heaving.

"Sam, it's okay. It's okay."

"You're hurting me…"

Dean's knuckles had gone white around the younger's wrists. "I'm sorry."

"But you aren't letting go?"

"No."

"Are we going to stay like this all night?"

"If we have to." Dean swallowed. "But I'd rather get you off this floor and into bed. All right?"

"Yeah…"

"Okay." With no little effort, Dean managed to jostle them both to their feet without releasing the younger's wrists – he wouldn't do that until they were out of the bathroom with some distance between them and the knife that had skidded into the corner.

Sam didn't resist as he was led into the bedroom, sitting still when Dean settled him on the mattress furthest from the bathroom.

"I'm just going to get a couple things, okay?" Dean spoke as though he expected to spook his brother at any wrong word. "Just stay right there."

"Yeah…" Sam muttered, gaze set on the floor. "Okay…"

Heart racing, the elder hurried to wet a towel in the sink, scrambling for the first aid kit in his duffel. He set the things beside his brother, Sam not having moved at all.

He took a deep breath, "Sam?"

Saying nothing, the younger kept his eyes firmly fixed on the stained carpet, holding out his right arm obediently.

Dean flinched at his brother's small hiss of pain as the towel brushed the angry wounds. Meticulously, the elder cleaned away the blood, revealing the purposeful and ugly lattice of narrow cuts.

"Sammy,' he kept his voice gentle, setting the towel aside and reaching for the first aid kit. "Sam, look at me."

Hesitantly, the younger forced his eyes up, sharp tears slicing through the streaked blood on his cheeks.

"Sam… what is this? You're not a suicide."

He closed his eyes, trying not wince at the sting of alcohol in the gashes. "I didn't intend it to go that far…"

"You aren't trying to kill yourself?"

"I didn't ask you to leave so that I could die…"

That was something at least. Dean took a long roll of gauze from his kit, holding the end at his brother's elbow. "What is this, then?"

"The blood on my hands…"

"Sam," he cut him off. "There is no blood on your hands."

"Jessica…"

"That was _not_ your fault."

"Either way…" Sam watched the white bandage as it carefully wrapped his arm. "It just hurt so much…"

Dean turned his eyes up to his brother, then continued to wind the gauze about Sam's wrist.

"I had…" Sam choked. "I had to let the pain out somehow."

Miserably, Dean closed his eyes for a moment, then clipped off the bandage, gesturing for Sam to hold out his other arm. "You could have come to me. We'd have figured something out."

"I…"

Sighing, the elder dabbed the towel over the bloody mess that was Sam's left arm. "You used to trust me…"

"Don't say that." Sam tried to catch is brother's eye, but Dean was focused on the injury. "You know I trust you."

"Sam," he snorted. "Instead of talking to me, you took my knife to your wrists."

"Hey," the younger tried to force a joke. "No chick flick moments, remember?"

"Dammit, Sam!" He smacked the towel down on the duvet. "You know I meant not to get all cushy over nothing! Not to avoid coming to me when you feel the need to slash yourself apart!"

"I know…" Sam lowered his eyes. "Sorry."

"Sorry?" Dean shook his head, taking the alcohol from his kit.

"I just… needed to ease the ache…"

"Yeah…"

"Look, man," Sam watched the kind, thorough way his brother cleaned the cuts. "I didn't mean…"

"I know…" Dean readied another roll of gauze. "It's okay."

"It's not."

Wrapping the bandage, he muttered, "None of these need stitching."

"Dean…"

He caught the younger's eye. "Have you done this before?"

"No…"

"Would you do it again?"

Sam bit his lip hard, "I'll come to you next time."

Dean secured the gauze, handing Sam the towel to wipe his face. "It helps, though, doesn't it?"

The younger turned, surprised, "What?"

Sighing, Dean sat beside his brother on the mattress. "Look… I don't want you to think I'm pissed at you…"

"Disappointed?"

"No. I just freaked when I thought you were trying to bleed to death while I was out."

"I don't want to die… I just…" Sam rolled his jaw. "I don't know if I can explain…"

"You don't have to."

Sam sat silently as Dean rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, turning his arm into the light.

"You can barely see them," the elder ran his fingers over the pair of faint white lines that criss-crossed a few inches below his elbow. "They faded pretty good. And after the first couple times, I learned how deep I could cut without leaving a scar."

"Shit… Dean…" Sam brushed the marked skin. "How long did you…"

"A few years," he said quickly. "Off and on." The elder caught his brother's eye. "And every time it helped relieve the ache a little. But it always came back. Always." He gestured the bandages on Sam's arms. "This won't fix anything. I _know_ it won't."

"Did Dad know?"

"No," Dean replied. "I locked the door. _I_ didn't want to be caught."

"And I did?"

"Didn't you?" He smiled gently at the look on his brother's face. "You're just smarter 'n me, Sam. _You_ knew this wouldn't solve your problems. But you had to try something – anything – to let that ache out."

"Fuck, Dean…" Sam dropped his forehead against his brother's shoulder.

"It's okay, Sammy." He put his arm about his brother's back. "It's okay."


	2. Chapter 2

That Ache  
Chapter Two

Author's Note: I don't know how pleased I am with this, but please do drop a note; good, bad or ugly.

Summary: He had to do something to relieve that ache. Warnings: deals with self harm; discussion of suicide; some language.

* * *

A bleak drizzle stained the windshield, obscuring the endless fields revealed through the windows. The overcast was heavy and weary, weighing upon wire fences and long grass. 

Dropping a small sigh, Sam crossed his arms tightly across his chest, trying to keep himself from scratching at the bandages. He blinked tiredly at the light rain, wishing it would lull him to sleep as it had when he was a child.

Shifting frustratedly, Sam pushed up his sleeve, rubbing at the gauze wrapping his forearm. His fingers caught the lip of the bandage, accidentally tugging it down.

Sam froze, stare set on the still-vicious lines decorating his skin so horribly. His fingers trembled as he reached toward his wrist, slowly tracing the scarlet lattice; back and forth, back and forth.

"Sam?"

He jumped, having forgotten entirely that he wasn't alone. "Yes?" he whispered, unable to break his stare with the slashes.

"You all right?"

"The pain comes back, right?" His fingers slid across the marring lines. "It doesn't fix anything?"

"Yeah, that's right, Sam." Dean kept his tone gentle. "It always comes back."

Intently, the younger traced the healing cuts nearest his wrist, murmuring to himself, "A little deeper… A little deeper, a little longer… The pain's gone forever…"

"Sam!"

His head jerked up, Sam turning sluggishly to meet his brother's worried eyes.

"You are _not_ a suicide."

The younger closed his eyes. "It would be so easy…"

"Not easy!" Dean's knuckles were turning white around the wheel.

"No?" The voice was soft and achingly fragile.

"Jessica would go unavenged. You'll never apologize to Dad like you wanted to."

Sam was quiet for a long moment, "Don't most people get the 'there's too much beauty' speech?"

"Sam…" Dean bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.

Sketching the lines with his nails again, the younger whispered, "There is no beauty for us… No warmth, no light from the sun… It passed us by…"

"Sammy," the elder took an unsteady breath. "There is beauty. Is that what you're looking for?"

"I… don't know…"

Dean reached out, squeezing his brother's shoulder. "There _is_ too much in this life to lose it all."

"Dean…" He hesitated. "Did… Did you ever try… to take it further? To just… finish it?"

"With the cutting?" The elder gripped the wheel with both hands. "No."

Sam nodded distantly, "Dean… I…" He gnawed his lip, then frowned. "Other than the cutting?"

The elder didn't reply, staring straight ahead at the wet asphalt.

"Dean…" Sam shifted. "Please… I… I really need you to be honest with me… You… You said to come to you if…" He lowered his eyes, "If I feel the need to slash myself apart…"

Dean dared a glance to his brother, taking a deep breath. "Once."

"But you weren't going to cut your wrists?"

The elder shook his head slowly.

"When you were with Dad?"

"When I was fifteen."

Sam's eyes widened. "What?" He squeezed his lashed shut – he'd never known. "Why?"

"I was a kid…"

"Dean… Why?"

The elder gripped the steering wheel violently, "I… thought I'd killed you."

Sam frowned, puzzled, "What?"

"Outside Baton Rouge," he began quickly. "That spirit…"

"Oh right…" The younger sighed softly. "Put me in the hospital." Sam rubbed his eyes. "There is no way that was your fault."

"I should have been keeping a closer eye on you. I was too slow…"

"It wasn't your fault."

"I was a kid."

Sam risked a glance to his brother, "What did you…"

"I… took your Beretta and locked myself in the bathroom. Waited for them to confirm that I'd killed you. Put my teeth on the barrel to chew a bullet."

"Fuck, Dean…" Sam propped his elbow on the window, burying his face in his hand. "Did Dad know?"

"No one knew."

"I'm sorry…"

"Don't be. I was selfish." Dean saw the younger turning to face him in the corner of his eye. "I'd have left Dad alone and I didn't care."

Sam sighed, easing his forehead back into his palm. "So, it's guilt that keeps us alive. Not beauty or something worth living for…"

"Worth living for? Sam-" he clutched his brother's sleeve. "We help – we _save_ – innocent people. Is that not beautiful?"

"You really believe in this, don't you?"

"Yeah, Sammy. I do."

"I'm just…" The younger sighed, "I'm so tired, Dean."

"I know you're still having trouble sleeping…"

"Not only that," Sam muttered into his palm. "I'm tired of all this. I'm tired of being on the move; of hunting; of needing to find Dad when he doesn't want us looking..." He sighed heavily. "I'm tired of this hopeless quest to avenge Mom, to avenge Jess…"

"We'll find them, Sam. I promise. I swear."

The younger seemed to fold in on himself. "You've never broken a promise you made to me…"

"I don't intend to start. But, Sam, I told you, this'll take a while."

"Dean… You've never broken a promise… Can…" He choked. "Can you promise the pain will fade? The guilt? Can you promise this won't destroy me? You can't…"

The elder slammed the brakes, veering hard off the road. "Sam." He grabbed his brother's shoulders, physically turning him from the window. "Sam, I promise we'll find Dad in the end. I promise we'll get the thing that killed Jess. And – I do – I _promise_ this won't break you!"

"How can you promise that?"

Dean's eyes were deep with a desperate sincerity. "Because I am going to do _anything_ to ensure that promise is kept. Sam… I will die; I will rape, murder and kill. I will hand you my knife and give you pointers on how to cut if you need these damned slashes to stay sane. I will turn this car around and drive, without stopping, back to Stanford and bribe, blackmail or fuck everyone I have to, to get you into that course starting tomorrow!"

Sam swallowed, "Could we… just stop for the night?"

"Yeah. Of course. Any place you want!"

"Just the next motel…"

"Okay." Dean squeezed is brother's shoulders. "It's going to be all right, Sam."

* * *

The room was small, but clean; a simple stroke of luck both were glad for. 

Sam sat obediently in a wire-frame chair as his brother changed the dressings on his arms, waiting until the elder finished to whisper, "Dean… I'd really like some time alone…"

The elder's eyes flashed up, full of suspicion and concern.

Sam grinned gently, "I'm not going to kill myself. Take all the weapons with you."

"I wouldn't leave you defenseless... And it's easy to find a weapon…"

"Dean, I'll be here when you get back. No worse for wear. Scout's honor."

The elder gave a nervous sigh, "Sam…"

"You trust me?"

"I'm worried about you."

"I'll be here. I just need some personal space… time… Please." When his brother hesitated, Sam whispered, "You said you'd do anything…"

Dean left reluctantly at the statement, going only as far as the motel bar, where he drank only Pepsi and was barely aware of the bottle-blonde waitress in her too-short skirt. When he could no longer stand being away, Dean paid the tab without looking at it, trudging back to the room with fear in his heart.

Holding his breath, he unlocked the door, jaw set so fiercely that it ached. Worry bled from his system when he spotted his little brother turned on his side on the far bed, chest rising and falling evenly.

There was no blood, no blade, no shell casing taunting his destruction.

Sighing, Dean draped his jacket over a chair, padding silently across the room. He perched on the edge of the mattress beside his brother, allowing his fingers to dance comfortingly through Sam's hair. His thoughts drifted, the elder unaware how long he sat thus.

At length, Sam drew a long breath, stirring beneath his brother's hand. He blinked sleep from his eyes then sighed, curling against the mattress, "You're back?"

"I was gone a fair while. Do you want me to leave again?"

"Stay," Sam whispered. He pressed his head toward his brother's fingers. "You haven't done this since I was nine."

"Is it bothering you?"

"No… It never did…" The younger closed his eyes. "I'm sorry about before."

"Don't be. I told you to say whatever you need to say whenever the fuck you need to say it."

"That didn't count as getting kushy over nothing, huh?"

"Sam…" The elder couldn't quite manage a grin at the statement, continuing to sweep his fingers through his brother's too-long locks. "Do… you want me to take you back to school?"

"Would you if I said 'yes'?"

"Yeah…"

"Do you want me to go?"

Dean closed his eyes. "I want what's best for you. Honestly, I do."

"I know…" the younger trailed off, setting his thoughts on the gentle touch in his hair.

"Sam… Do you? Do you want me to take you?"

"No."

"You don't have to decide right now…"

"I have decided. I decided the night Jessica died." He swallowed. "You and me… We're seeing this thing through. I meant it…"

"Sammy…"

"I'm all right, Dean… Really. It's just… hard… some days…"

"I know."

"It's been the same since we were kids…"

"There'll always be monsters."

Cam cuddled against the blanket and his brother's palm, "And you'll always save me…"

"What?"

"I'm not trying to make a sappy moment. I just… Thanks."

Dean drew a long breath, "You _know_ I'm here for you, right, Sam? Always."

"I know." Sam let his lashes drift shut. "It's the one thing I could count on…"


	3. Chapter 3

That Ache  
Chapter Three

Author's Note: Been awhile… If anyone's interested in another chapter, I'm stoked to write it, but I have no ideas for what could transpire, so drop a hint if there's anything you'd like to see. And please leave a review; good, bad or ugly.

Summary: He had to do something to relieve that ache. Warnings: deals with self harm; some language.

* * *

Quietly closing the door to yet another cheap motel room behind him, Dean dropped a weighty, weary sigh. His body was drained; adrenaline bled from his system leaving only a too-small dose of sugar and caffeine. 

He looked to Sam, the younger passed out on the bed furthest from the door. Dean couldn't quite bring himself to say 'asleep', seeing as his brother was still wearing his sneakers, legs tipped over the foot of the bed, Sam obviously having intended to but sit for a moment before losing his battle with exhaustion.

Dean sighed again, glad his brother had succumbed to the physical need for sleep – a blessing the elder doubted would grace him for some time. He never had been able to sleep when a kid was killed.

Dropping into an uncomfortable chair, Dean set a pair of knives on the table for sharpening before field-stripping the Glock to clean it.

He fell easily into the familiar motions, relaxing despite himself, the act cathartic. His hands were busy, his mind occupied with something other than that little girl's face.

That innocent little girl's screams.

Dean cursed, reaching into the duffel at his feet, pulling out the first aid kit for some aspirin. Rubbing his eyes, he reassembled the pistol, firing through the empty chamber to test it. Satisfied, he set the gun atop the kit, turning to the knives.

He froze, the light from the single lamp flashing along the blade, taunting him, reflecting a small girl's eyes. He saw blood; blood everywhere; warm and sweet and such a beautiful, horrible scarlet. The red of lollipops and licorice.

Dean shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut. He heard her screaming, crying, begging, pleading for him to save her. _Why wouldn't you save me?_

A spire drove down Dean's spine, through his chest. You failed. You failed.

_We can't save everyone._

Why not her? _Why not me?_ Just a little girl. A beautiful sweet little girl. Just a beautiful, sweet little corpse. _Because of you!_

Blurred vision settled on the knife clenched in his shaking hand. Not the serrated edge. Don't use the serrated one.

_Can't you taste my blood?_ Sugary sweet, innocent blood? _On your hands._

Dean smacked the knife down, trading it for the second. He could barely breathe for the pressure in his chest, the ache paralyzing his blood, the pain behind his eyes.

_Why would you do this to me? Why would you let it happen? Why would you cause this?_

He turned his arm, trembling hand pressing the blade taught against his flesh. No. No.

_Why did I deserve to die? You could have saved me… You didn't! You let me die! You let me! You killed me, Dean! Damn you! I was a child! Why couldn't I live? _Why

He pulled the handle sharply, his head clearing at the first sharp thrill of pain that danced through his body. Shuddering, he shifted the blade lower, relishing in the bite of metal in his skin, watching the scarlet track the knife left in its wake; his own blood ridding the images of honey-sweet scarlet from behind his eyes.

"Dean?"

He jumped sharply, whirling at the voice, eyes flashing.

Sam had propped himself up on his elbows, the younger blinking sleep from his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Uh…" the elder couldn't quite keep the shiver from his voice. "Just cleaning the Glock."

"It's the middle of the night."

"Gotta maintain your weapons."

Sam pushed himself up to sit, frowning at the casual response. "You all right?"

"Fine," Dean grinned. "Go back to sleep, Sammy."

"Why're you sitting so funny?"

"I'm not."

Chewing his lip, Sam rose, stepping over to his brother.

"What?"

The younger didn't reply, reaching out to grasp Dean's wrist.

"Let go, Sam. Back away."

Sam calmly met a tone and a glare that most would have run from, the younger possessing a deep-rooted knowledge that his brother would never hurt him. Determined, he twisted the elder's arm, revealing the twin slashes still seeping blood across pale skin. "What the hell is this?"

"Must've slipped."

"_What is this_?"

"You know what it is!"

"Fuck, Dean!" Sam fell into the second chair, dropping his face into his hands, elbows propped on the table. "Fuck."

The elder sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"What happed to 'the pain comes back'?"

"It does," Dean stated simply.

The younger lifted his eyes from his palms. "I don't understand… I thought that you…"

"I never said I'd stopped."

Sam sighed heavily, "How… How can I possibly hope you'll be able to help me, if you can't even help yourself?"

"Because I've always been better at helping you than me. It's part of being a big brother."

"No," Sam shook his head, voice firm. He looked to Dean. "No; it isn't going to happen this way."

"What?" the elder asked, puzzled. He frowned at his brother, moving the gun from atop the first aid kit. "What happen, what way?"

"I can't… can't stop cutting if you're going to be doing it." Sam swallowed, watching the too-casual way his brother was looking through the first aid kit. "We're going to do this together."

Dean didn't reply, readying gauze and antiseptic with one hand.

"Dean," the younger caught his wrist, halting the movement. "We do this together."

"Sammy…" he sighed, eyes tired.

"You said you would do anything."

Dean heaved his breath out, dropping his gaze to the table. "Yeah…" He looked up at his brother. "Then this is the last time. I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep."

"I don't."

Sam nodded. "Thank you." He took the bandages from the elder's hand, "Here, let me."

Dean acquiesced, though with the practice he'd had, he could have easily managed the cuts on his own.

"Why did you do it?" Sam asked, cleaning the slashes with alcohol. "Because of the girl?"

The elder bit his tongue. "Yeah…"

"It wasn't your fault." Sam wondered if the statement had yet become cliché. "You did everything you could."

"It wasn't enough."

"Sometimes it can't be." Sam tore open a sterile packet of gauze. "We can't save everyone."

"I know."

"You couldn't have saved that kid… and I couldn't have saved Jess…"

Dean pursed his lips. "You mean that?"

"My head does. I know that _logically_ it's true." Sam smirked, "I'm just still working on getting the rest of me to agree."

"Well, your head's right."

"Yeah…" He taped the gauze in place and sighed. "Dean… Why did you start in the first place?"

The elder bit his lip. "Same reason you did. I had to let the ache out before it crushed me."

"What caused it?"

Dean sighed, "Kid got killed. It was really gruesome. Way worse than tonight."

"And Dad…"

"Dad didn't see it happen. I did."

"I thought we couldn't bring this shit home with us."

"Yeah. Well, I couldn't shake this. And after that first time, the cutting just got easier and easier…"

Sam sighed, "I can't believe Dad never knew."

"I used to be a lot more careful. I slipped up tonight."

"I'm glad you did." The younger rubbed his eyes. "You're good with kids, you know?"

"Kids get hurt around me."

"Not because of you."

"Still…"

"You were right before. You can't blame yourself for things beyond your control."

"No… You can't…" Dean cleared his throat, setting his brother with a sure, steady look. "The cutting we _can_ control. I slipped tonight. I fucked up. But I'm not going to slip again and I won't let you fall either."

"All right," Sam nodded. "Good."

"We'll figure something out."

"Good." The younger couldn't help a soft smile.

Dean smirked, "But don't you dare give me shit for the knife under my pillow, 'cause I still believe in precaution and it's staying there."

Sam chuckled, rubbing his eyes. "All right. I won't."


	4. Chapter 4

That Ache  
Chapter Four

Author's Note: I want to thank everyone for the reviews. They've inspired this chapter. I'm wide open for another if anyone's interested. Please do leave suggestions as to what you'd like to see, or a note; good, bad or ugly.

Summary: He had to do something to relieve that ache. Warnings: deals with self harm; contemplation of self harm; COARSE language.

* * *

For a misleading second everything was quiet and still, the night contemplative and gentle. The door slammed a heartbeat later, Dean flinching with the force as he turned to face his brother, Sam following him into the room. 

"Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck!_" Sam dragged his hands over his face and through his hair. "Holy fuck! Shit. Shit. Shit!"

"Sam, it's okay. Calm down, man. It's over."

"No. No, no, no! It's never over! It's never over!" The younger's eyes were wide and wild, flashing across his brother's countenance never settling. "Fucking… Fuck, shit! How the fucking…"

"Sam…"

"_No!_" He threw his arms out, whirling full circle with the force. "Oh man, oh man, oh man…"

"Sam, it's all right. Just calm down."

"Dammit, dammit… Fuck!" Sam ripped at the cuffs of his jacket, clawing at his arms. "Stop. Make it stop! Dean… Dean! Please!"

"Sam!" The elder grasped his brother's arms securely, trying to still the flailing movements. "It's okay!"

"No! No, please! You… you have to let me let it out!" Sam struggled feverishly. "_Please!_ Just this once! Just once!"

"No, Sam. We're controlling the cutting. No more. We're stopping."

"_Please!_ Please, Dean! Oh fuck! Please! I… It aches! It just fucking aches so bad! I have to do something! I have to stop this! It's not in my control! Please! Fucking… please! Please!"

"I am not letting you slash at yourself, Sammy. No!"

A tearless sob tore from the younger's throat. "You said you'd do anything! Anything to stop this from destroying me!"

"You can't just throw that back at me…"

"It's destroying me, Dean! _Fuck!_ Please just let me stop the pain!"

"We'll stop it. But you're not cutting."

Sam shouted, jerking against his brother's hold. "_Please!_"

"Sit down, Sam," Dean dragged his brother around, shoving him onto the nearest bed. "Sit on your hands. Do it!"

"This is torture!"

"Sit on them!" The elder gripped his brother's shoulders tightly. "I'm going to get something. I'll be gone one minute. One minute, Sam!"

The younger opened his mouth to protest, to scream, to beg, his eyes wild, Dean not giving him a chance to do any of them.

"One minute. Just sit still. Don't you move." He looked pointedly into his brother's eyes. "Just sit there. And if you've scratched yourself open or have something sharp in your hand when I get back, I swear I'll kick your ass."

"Threats? This doesn't help anything! You said you'd help me! You promised! Help me, Dean! Help me by letting me…"

"No!"

"Just this one time! Just one fucking time!"

"No." Dean stepped back. "Don't move."

Sam bit his lip hard, kicking out his legs uselessly as his brother hurried from the room. He crossed his arms tightly, squeezing them against his chest, pressing his eyes shut.

Minutes that became taffy hours later, Sam jerked as the door banged open, frantic eyes looking up at his brother hopefully. He felt as though he were about to collapse into himself, Dean holding an ice bucket in one hand.

"Please…"

"Sit at the edge of the bed. Now. Move!"

Sam felt himself complying without the desire to, something in his brother's tone leaving no room for argument.

"Jacket off." Dean shirked his own over the back of a chair. "The flannel too. Come on."

Dropping the clothing to the floor, Sam buried his hands in his hair. "Fuck, Dean, please."

The elder slipped onto the bed behind his brother, sliding forward to sit directly behind him, his legs on either side of the younger's body. "Take this," Dean pressed a rolled up shirt into Sam's left hand. "Squeeze it. Hard as you can."

"What?"

"Turn your arm," Dean grasped Sam's right wrist turning it that his fisted palm faced the ceiling.

"Tell me you have a knife."

The elder didn't reply, reaching across his brother's body to hold the underside of his wrist. "Keep still."

"You're doing the cutting for me? Fine… Fine, that's fine." Sam closed his eyes. "Just hurry… Just do it. Let the ache out…" His eyes flashed open at a cold, tingling sensation on his flesh. "What?"

Dean held an ice cube from the bucket, tracing it over the nearly-healed line closest to his brother's elbow. He felt the younger shiver against his chest.

"What are you doing?"

The elder hushed him, dragging the ice over the next slash, mimicking the motion of metal in skin, a thin trail of melting water dripping like spilled blood.

Sam was tense, his hand squeezed tightly around the T-shirt, strangling the dark fabric, the fist of his right firm enough to leave small half-moon shaped marks on his palm. "Mother fucker…"

"Sam," Dean said softly into his brother's ear. "Tonight was not your fault." He scratched the ice across flesh. "You did all you could. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault…"

The younger shuddered, "I should have…"

"No, Sammy. You did _everything_ you could have done. _Everything_. It was not your fault." Another sweep of ice, Dean's words becoming a muttering. "It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault."

Sam tried to jerk away, the elder keeping him still.

"There is no blood on your hands. It wasn't your fault. You did everything you could. It wasn't your fault."

"It aches," the younger whispered.

"I know it aches. I know. But it shouldn't. Not in you. Because you did nothing wrong. There was nothing more you could have done."

Sam shivered again, the cold stinging his skin. "Dean…"

"It wasn't your fault. It's okay. It's okay…"

The younger felt himself dropping backwards, the ice leaving a frigid path down his forearm.

"Lean back against me, Sam. It's okay. I'm here for you, Sammy. It's okay. Everything's going to be fine."

"Fuck," Sam's fist opened as the ice danced over his wrist.

"Take this," Dean set the ice cube in his brother's palm. "Squeeze it, Sam."

The younger shivered, letting himself recline against the elder's chest. He gripped the ice securely, relishing in the bite of cold against his skin.

"This was not your fault." Dean snatched another piece of ice from the bucket, staring at Sam's wrist and slicing harmlessly back toward his elbow. "It wasn't your fault. You did all you could. You risked your life. You fought. You struggled. You tried. You did everything right. You did nothing wrong."

"Fuck, Dean…"

"No guilt, Sammy. No guilt. No blood. No blood on your hands." He flicked the warming ice to the carpet, not caring where it fell to melt. "Turn your other arm," Dean coaxed his brother to twist his left, the T-shirt having fallen from his lax hand a brief time before.

Sam took a sharp breath as the frozen liquid slicked over the marks on his arm, burning slightly in the chill air of the room.

"It wasn't your fault. Not your fault." Dean iced the fading lines, reaching the younger's wrist. "Say it, Sammy. Tell me it wasn't your fault. You know I wouldn't lie to you, right?"

"It wasn't my fault… I… we tried."

"That's right. That's right. Good."

"Fuck…" Sam breathed.

The elder tossed the mostly melted bit of ice to the floor. "Feel better?"

"A little…"

"You know you're a good person, right Sammy? And you aren't alone."

"I know…" Sam whispered. "I know."

Dean laid a palm on each of the younger's wrists, rapidly rubbing his hands over the chilled, wet skin.

Sam let his eyes fall shut. "This is a strangely intimate moment, huh?"

The elder smirked, if Sam allowed a jest than he could as well. "Dude, if this is 'intimate' you have serious relationship issues."

"It _is_ a chick flick, though, isn't it?"

"Nope. 'Chick flick' is weeping about nothing. Cutting isn't nothing."

"I feel better," Sam admitted, turning his eyes up to his brother, not able to see much more than his chin. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, man," Dean allowed his hands to slow gradually, still running his palms along the younger's forearms, but without the fervor of before. "I'm okay. Don't worry."

"I don't get it. This hunt drives me to the brink and you're fine…"

"Yeah, well, the last one left me slashing and you fine. It's why we're a team not each a solo act."

"Tell me I don't have to do this alone."

"Never. I'll do anything. Just like I promised. But I don't want to see your blood again; not caused by anything – especially not your own hand."

"I'm trying."

"I know it's not easy," Dean let his hands fall still, holding Sam's wrists gently, but secure. "Especially not with the job… with the things we have to keep seeing…"

Sam nodded, the motion awkward with his head propped against the elder's chest. "We just keep trying."

"Right."

"Thank you." Sam turned his face slightly toward his brother's neck, not wishing to try to break the steady grasp that held him. "Thank you so much."

"How do you feel?"

"Good." The younger actually smiled. "The ache is gone… I mean, maybe it's temporary, but I feel okay again…"

Dean felt a swell of relief. "Good, Sam. That's good."

"This is so familiar…"

"What is?"

"Just sitting here like this. It reminds me of when I was a kid…"

"I don't think we ever sat quite like this, Sammy."

"Not exactly… But it… It reminds me of all those times… Where all it took to make feel safe was my big brother…"

"That familiarity… that safety probably helps."

"Probably." Sam sighed wearily, "I'm so tired…"

"It was a long night." The elder let his chin rest atop Sam's shaggy hair. "Think you could catch some sleep?"

"Yeah…"

"Okay," Dean squeezed the younger's wrists reassuringly. "Why don't you lie down for a while?"

"Okay," Sam slipped to his feet, changing into sweats and a fresh T-shirt while Dean cleared the ice from the bed, not bothering to retrieve the pieces that were all but puddles on the thin carpeting.

Flopping bonelessly onto the hard mattress, Sam burrowed under the blanket, not having realized the extent of his exhaustion. "I could sleep for a month."

The elder grinned. "I'm gonna grab a shower, all right?"

"Sure…"

"If you need me, just yell or bang on the door."

"Hey, Dean…" he stopped his brother.

"Yeah?"

"Look, I mean…" Sam paused, "That night… that you found me in the bathroom… I _did_ want you to catch me. I… needed help. I didn't know how else to let the pain out… and I… I didn't know how to tell you about it. I didn't know how you'd react… What you'd say…"

"Sam…" the elder came to stand beside the bed.

"I… I thought… I was afraid you'd be pissed or disgusted or…"

"Sam," Dean let his voice become firm, though comforting. "I am the last person in the world who will ever judge you, ever condemn you, for _anything._ And I will never disbelieve you either."

"I know…" Sam lowered his eyes. "We're good then?"

"Of course."

"Because…" Sam looked away. "I couldn't have done this alone. I'd have lost it by now. Um… It's just… even without the cutting… This job and the visions – or whatever… I'd have completely lost it."

"Look, Sam," the elder stated. "You won't ever have to do this alone."

"Dad bailed."

"I won't."

Sam smiled. "I know."

"Get some sleep, dude. And no freaky, shining visions tonight, okay?"

The younger snorted without animosity. "I'll do my best."

"And tomorrow we'll try to bend the spoon again."

Sam shook his head gently, "Fuck you, man."

Dean grinned. "G'night, Sam."

The younger curled into the pillow, " 'Night."

Lips quirking into a smile, Dean slipped into the bathroom, closing the door securely behind him. He stepped to the shower, cranking the water on full blast before falling back against the wall, sliding down to the floor and drawing his knees up.

_Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Fucking, fucking shit! Sweet fucking hell. Oh shit! Oh fuck!_

How could anyone be all right after the night they had? How could anyone be sane?

He wrapped his arms about himself, grinding his forehead into his knees.

_Dammit, dammit, dammit! Shit! Fucking shit! Mother fucker!_

All he could do was swear. Furiously, Dean rubbed at his arms, tearing at his clothes without ripping fabric.

_Damn! Damn! Shit!_

Fuck, how he needed the slashes! Just one time! Just one night! Just to get this pain out! Just to relieve the guilt that pressed so violently against his chest. Hell, he'd hidden it from his father for years, he could hide it from Sam for just one, tiny, insignificant night!

_No! No, don't you dare!_

He threw his head back. _You promised him! You promised him you'd stop! You promised _Sammy.

If you could say anything about Dean Winchester, you could say he was a man that was good to his word – especially if it was given to his little brother. He had never broken a promise to Sam, not even as a child.

And he'd always been better at helping Sam than helping himself.

He could scratch at his arms. Even short nails would tear skin eventually, if he grated them hard enough against flesh. It wasn't cutting… It wasn't…

Sammy would never see a difference. There wasn't really a difference. He could slam his head against the wall, punch the counter until his knuckles bruised and bled, could scald his flesh with the lighter in his pocket…

_Stop it! Stop it! Stop! You can't! You can't!_

Ice had never helped him. It just pissed him off, made the urge to cut burn brighter. He'd been surprised that it helped his brother… but, hell, whatever worked.

He couldn't _do_ anything. Couldn't scream – it would wake Sam. Couldn't try to run it out of his system – he wouldn't leave Sammy alone. Couldn't leap in the car and drive – even if it wouldn't leave his brother on his own, Dean was such a piss-poor driver on nights like this that he was more likely to kill himself than find relief.

Gritting his teeth, Dean braced his hands behind his head, rocking slightly on the cold linoleum, squeezing his eyes shut. 'Trauma rocking.' Who the hell had said that?

_Shit! Fucking, mother fucking shit!_

He felt like he was being torn apart, turned inside out. The pain was suffocating, crushing, debilitating.

_Please, please, please! Fuck, fuck!_

_You wouldn't even need it if you weren't so fucking pathetic! If you weren't so fucking useless! If you didn't always fucking fail! At everything! You damn, fucking, useless son of a bitch! No wonder no one ever bothers with you! You don't deserve it!_

Just two twin slashes. The last pair hadn't fully healed yet. He could just trace them again…

_Just break your promise then! No one should trust you anyway! You don't deserve trust! You don't deserve love!_

_You _are _guilty! You caused this! All of this! Damn you! Damn you!_

Dean squeezed his eyes shut as he was paralyzed, strangled, crushed. As the pain swelled behind his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

That Ache  
Chapter Five

Author's Note: I had a lot of trouble with this chapter; I've been re-writing it for two weeks and I'm still not sure about it. Also, I'm not really sure what a Beta is, but if anyone would be interested in hashing around some ideas or reading some of this stuff before it's posted to give some insight, that would be great!

I'm wide open and keen on suggestions, anything you'd like to see and reviews! Please do drop a note; good, bad or ugly.

Summary: He had to do something to relieve that ache. Warnings: deals with self harm; some language.

* * *

Sam banged the door open with his hip, keeping a firm grip on his brother as he helped him into the small room. "Here… Easy…" he settled the elder gently on the nearest bed before quickly shutting the door and twisting the lock. 

Scrambling for towels and their duffel, Sam risked a glance to his brother. Dean sat stiffly, breathing sharply through his teeth, but uttered no complaint of pain.

Fishing hurriedly for the first aid kit, Sam demanded, "What were you doing back there?"

"Ridding Lafayette of its paranormal menace."

"Dammit, Dean! This was supposed to be an easy job! Hell, it _was_ an easy job! What happened?"

"Shit. Shit happens, Sam. You know that."

"Why didn't you fire?"

"Tried. Too slow."

"Bull!" The younger yanked the first aid kit from the bag. "That spirit was slow! You could have gotten off six shots before it reached you!"

"Apparently not."

Shaking his head flustered, Sam moved to the bed. "Let's see it."

"I can handle it."

"Yeah, with the eyes in the back of your head and the arms that face the wrong way!"

Dean smirked. "That'd be cool."

"What?"

"Actual eyes in the back of your head."

Sam felt his anger sparking. "You let that thing cut you open and throw you through a fucking wall!"

"You're overreacting."

Setting his jaw and swallowing hard, Sam reached for the jacket draped over his brother's shoulders, "Here."

"I got it."

"Shut up."

"Panties in a twist, little brother?" Dean watched him from the corner of his eye. "I'm not dead. I've been hurt before. This is no big deal."

"You let it happen!"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?" Sam spat. "What, you promise not to cut, so you get yourself sliced open by some damn spirit instead?"

Dean looked straight ahead, eyes set in a calm mask. "Do you think we could argue _after_ getting the bleeding controlled?"

Concern flashed across the younger's face, settling there. "Well, how the hell bad…" Sam's breath hitched as he pulled the jacket away. "Holy…"

The back of Dean's shirt was shredded, fabric soaked with cherry blood that seeped into the waistband of his jeans. Sam swallowed, "Keep still while I cut it off."

"Easy on the threads, man."

"Believe me, it's trashed anyway." Sam hated the calmness of his brother's voice, the easy shield he'd drawn over the pain.

The younger slit the damp cloth, gently easing it away from where is stuck to the wound. "Shit."

"Not too shabby, huh?"

Deep, already darkening contusions hugged the elder's shoulders, stretching down the length of his spine and wrapping slightly about his ribs before tapering off, two long gashes slicing through bruised flesh, seeping blood.

"Sam?"

"All right, hang on." Gritting his teeth, the younger pressed a towel over the bleeding gashes, flinching as his brother's back arched away automatically before Dean regained control, suffering the pressure. "Sorry." Sam ripped open the first aid kit, digging through it. "Here, I saw some codeine still in here… You aren't allergic, are you?"

"That was you, genius."

"Well, I figured I should be sure!" Sam snapped, concern blurring into anger. "The prescription's under some alias! I didn't know if it was yours or Dad's!"

"Dad's."

"I'm sure he won't mind," the younger retorted, locating the bottle.

"I don't need it, Sam. Save it."

"Dean," Sam's voice took on a deadly intonation. "I have to stitch this."

"Fine."

"The stitches have to be set through the bruise! How much pain are you in already? Take the fucking drugs!"

"I've been sewn up before without meds."

Biting his lip, Sam jabbed his finger into the contusion cloaking his brother's shoulder, feeling only minutely guilty when the elder's breath hitched, Dean pulling away instinctively. "Now, imagine sutures."

"Just stitch it, Sam."

"I won't cause you unnecessary pain!" the younger hissed sharply. "I won't." He thrust the pills into his brother's face. "Take them! Please."

Sighing, Dean took the dose from his brother's hand. "I hate these things. They put me out."

Readying supplies, Sam muttered, "Well, drowsiness is a side effect…"

"It hits me hard, man."

"Good. You could do with some sleep!" The younger looked up pointedly. "Stop fighting me and take them, or I swear I'll force them down your throat."

"Fine. PMS much?" Dean saw the poor attempt at levity went all but unnoticed by his brother, the elder sighing and tossing back the pills.

"Need water?"

Dean shook his head slowly, glad not to have attempted the motion with any greater speed.

"Okay." Sam bit his tongue as he lifted the towel slightly, peeking at the wound. "Hell…" He cleared his throat. "I can wait for those to kick in…"

"How bad is the bleeding?"

"Bad enough that I'd be worried about leaving it long enough for them to kick in…"

Dean almost sounded glad, "Do what you gotta do."

Steeling himself, Sam tore open a gauze pad, soaking it in alcohol. "You know I have to sanitize it."

"I know. Let 'er rip, Hawkeye."

Laying a steadying hand on his brother's shoulder, careful not to press against the contusion, Sam tipped the soaked bandage to the bloody mess of Dean's lower back. The elder hissed, jerking sharply.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Dean ground out, regaining control of his body and keeping still.

Splashing more alcohol on the pad, Sam moved it lower, the disinfectant revealing the lay of the slashes as it sterilized. The elder's shoulders tensed subconsciously, teeth gritting together.

Wincing, Sam coaxed the alcohol to drip into the cuts, flushing them thoroughly, having no idea how his brother could sit statue still through the burning agony both were too familiar with. "I need you to lean forward."

The younger took a pair of tweezers as his brother complied. "Brace yourself." Carefully, he dug the tips into the mangled flesh, grasping at a fair-sized piece of shrapnel from the wall, yanking it free.

Dean gripped the bedspread, squeezing it tightly, viscously willing himself not to twist away from Sam's ministrations.

Pressing his tongue between his lips, Sam ground the tweezers into ripped tissue, grappling for gritty chunks of plaster and bits of torn fabric. "Hey, so remember that summer down in Atlanta?"

"Don't try and distract me," Dean hissed tightly, tensing as the tweezers grated just beneath his skin, jerking free a chunk of something the elder couldn't see. "I hate that."

Sam bit his lip, scowling as the tweezers missed their mark, forcing the bit of plaster deeper. "Dammit…" He shoved the metal into flesh, pursuing it, wincing himself as Dean's breath caught. "Come on…"

The elder squeezed his eyes shut, strangling the blanket, forgetting to breathe again until Sam tugged the tweezers free.

"Okay. One more." Sam readied the instrument, using one hand to keep up pressure on the bloody towel.

Dean grunted as the younger jabbed the tweezers sharply into his lower back, twisting them to catch the grit that invaded his skin. "Shit…"

"Hanging on?"

"Yeah." The elder relaxed as the tweezers were pulled free, breathing heavily against the anguish that flowed from hip to neck.

Sam grabbed a fresh piece of gauze, dousing it in alcohol and sweeping it quickly over the slashes, forcing himself to ignore the subconscious reactions of the elder's body; the flinches and clenching of his muscles that Dean couldn't still. "Pills working yet?"

"Not yet…"

"Damn." The younger snatched a suture set from the kit. "The bleeding's pretty bad…"

"Stitch it, Sam. You need to do it; just get it done."

"Lean forward a little more." Taking a deep breath, Sam set his will, catching the bruised flesh on either side of the deepest gash and easing it together with his fingers, not missing the small sound his brother didn't quite choke back. "Okay?"

He speared the hooked needle through damaged skin, pulling the thread fluidly. _Small and tight. Small and tight. Keep going. __  
_  
Lacing three quick stitches, Sam risked a glance to his brother's face, the elder's features pressed with concentration and pain. "Still with me?"

"I'm good…"

Sam didn't believe it, but impaled skin with the needle again – it had to be done. He worked as quickly as he dared, knowing too well he was out of practice.

Dean breathed shallowly through his nose, thread tugging and grating in his flesh, each pinprick spiking like a stab wound through the contusions. Pain flooded his mind, the hunter doing nothing to try and keep it from swelling in his conscious.

Wiping blood from his fingers, Sam gripped the needle again, spearing tender, purple-tinged skin. He disconnected himself, forgetting the agony necessary actions were causing, forgetting it was brother that suffered. He moved automatically, instinctively, sweeping the needle in and out.

He was startled from the trance when his brother choked on a bizarre squawk, voice stuttering over pain and a desperate relief. Sam couldn't recall having ever heard a sound like it slip from the elder's throat and his eyes flashed, concerned, to Dean's face.

Sam's stomach clenched. His brother's countenance was drawn in pain, but his eyes, staring straight ahead at some nothing in the distance, reflected release and respite. Sam knew he'd been right – his brother had allowed, had orchestrated, the injury.  
_  
__Fucking hell, no…_

Swallowing his fear and concern, the younger returned to the brutal cuts, resuming the efficient pattern of needle and thread.

_One thing at a time, Sam. Concentrate._

He tied off the sutures, carefully dabbing away the blood to check his work. "I need to do one more. I can just bandage the rest."

Dean nodded, letting his eyes fall shut. He gasped faintly as Sam squeezed bruised flesh together again, but remained motionless.

Flicking careful stitches through purple-black tissue, Sam asked, "Drugs kicking in yet?"

"Think so…"

Maybe that caused the relief inthe elder'seyes: the easing of pain, not its presence. Sam dared another glance to his brother's face and _knew_ the optimist in him was wrong once again.

_Why is always the worst-case scenario?_

Meticulously, Sam threaded close stitches, ignoring the blood on his hands. Lacing the last few, he allowed a breath of relief, clipping the string and dutifully checking his work. "All right. How you doing?"

"Fine…" the elder's voice was clenched.

"I'm going to bandage them, okay?"

"Mm hmm," Dean allowed a vague nod.

"Pills?" Sam readied gauze and medical tape.

"I told you they put me out…"

"I can dress it while you're lying down…"

"Just finish."

Smoothly, Sam covered the open wounds, securing the bandages with enough pressure to encourage clotting, carefully pressing the tape atop bruises, doing his best not to aggravate them. "Okay. Lie down, man."

"I'm fine, Sam."

"Just lie down before the meds kick in and you fall on your face."

Sam tidied the mess of bloodied bandages, resisting the urge to aid his brother, Dean inching up the mattress and easing painfully down to rest on his stomach. His gaze was drawn to the hideous contusions and he sighed, "You going to be okay for a minute?"

"I don't need a sitter."

"Sure you don't," the younger grinned gently. "I'll be right back."

Dean gave a muffled grunt of response into the pillow, closing his eyes.

Biting his lip, Sam snatched a pail from the dresser, slipping from the room with a lingering glance to his brother. Quickly, he walked to the machine, scooping up a bucketful of ice and returning to the room, the cool night air not having time to soothe his thoughts.

Bolting the door behind him, Sam's gaze immediately flicked to the elder. Dean hadn't moved, lost to a deep, medicated sleep.

Sighing, he found a clean towel, dampening it with cool water and dumping the bucket into it. Gently, Sam laid the ice-filled towel over the gnarled bruises marring his brother's flesh. He winced sympathetically – Dean would be lucky to be able to move come morning.

Sighing heavily, he sat on the bed, running his hands over his face and through his hair. This was a serious problem. Dean had let himself get hurt – tried to get himself hurt. And it was because Sam wouldn't let him cut.

The younger pushed up his shirtsleeves, reaching into the ice bucket and taking one of the remaining pieces. Squeezing his fist, Sam pulled the ice across the inside of his arm, slowly working toward his wrist. He wasn't sure why, exactly, it eased the craving to slash –he only cared that it did.

Dean had said he'd heard about it somewhere, that he'd tried it and found it a waste of time until it worked for Sam. Apparently, the sting and the red marks left by the cold were meant to emulate the cutting without leaving any lasting effect. No blood, no wound, no danger. A safe alternative.

But Dean hadn't found himself a safe alternative.

Sam glanced worriedly to his brother's sleeping face and sighed. He knew the cutting was… 'wrong,' knew there were inherent dangers to the act itself, physical and physiological.

Physiological issues… They were both pretty fucked up, weren't they?

Sam snorted humorlessly as a shiver slithered up his spine. He dragged a fresh piece of ice across the skin of his left, the movements jerky and awkward, unlike the confident, steady 'slashes' his brother had carved for him a few weeks previous.

The younger glanced to Dean again. Dammit, he should have known something was wrong. No one could have sauntered away from that last job unaffected. He doubted if even John-fucking-unshakable-Winchester would have been 'fine.'

And the pain from that damned hunt had been festering within his brother, Dean not finding an outlet.

Sam should have known. Damn, he had been so stupid. His brother had looked as though he had just taken a casual Sunday stroll through the deepest pits of Hell ever since that hunt. But Sam, gullible and trusting and stupid like he was, had believed the elder when he said was fine. 'Just a bit of a cold, Sammy. Nothing to stress about.'

Even gullible, trusting and stupid he should have fucking clued in when the man they interviewed for their latest hunt had stopped short in the doorway, asking if the elder was all right before they could so much as state who they were or what they wanted.

_Dammit, Sam._

He looked again to his brother, exhaustion, weeks of tension and medication affording the elder a deep slumber. Sam found his eyes drawn to the ugly bruises and stark bandages covering fresh sutures.

This was what it had come down to. Dean promised to stop cutting; promised his little Sammy – the vow as unbreakable as steel in his mind. So, he'd found a source of pain elsewhere. And if cutting was unsafe… this was just incomprehensibly dangerous.

The elder had been lucky this time – that spirit could have broken his back just as easily as it had bruised it; could have sliced through his chest or his stomach or his throat.

And what was next? If his brother failed to sustain some injury at the hand of what they were hunting, what then would he try?

The thought terrified Sam through to the tips of his toes, images of his big brother 'hustling' and having an 'accidental misunderstanding' with some three hundred pound biker flashing through his mind.

Sam heaved his breath out, weary and troubled, carefully shifting the makeshift icepack lower. This was definitely worse than a few shallow cuts on Dean's arms.

"Fuck, Dean…" he muttered. Sam's chest was tight; he had no idea how to help his brother.

He knew he could let the elder out of his promise. Was the cutting really so awful if the alternative was this much worse? If the alternative could very possibly get his brother killed?

Sam drew his knees up, pressing his forehead against them. What the fuck was wrong with them? What kind of sick, disgusting freak did you have to be to end up in a situation like this?

He felt dirty – dirty and worthless. And helpless. And he hated that, were he awake, Dean could rid him all such feelings. But, Sam… Sam had no clue how to aid his brother.

All the guilt he'd felt for those events which Dean had actually begun to convince him weren't his fault was creeping back. The guilt and the ache…

Sam took a deep breath. He could control the ache. Could control it with ice and remembrance of his brother's words. He could best the guilt – granted, he needed help, but help he had. He _could_. He would.

But Dean…

The younger wasn't even sure it was just release from fault and grief that his brother sought. He wasn't confidant that the elder had been cutting to but free the ache that built within him in a spill of his own blood. Sam didn't believe his brother tore his flesh just to ease trouble over a child's death – though, Dean had _always_ taken it hard when a kid died.

Sam was terrified that, for whatever failures, transgressions, and wrongs his brother had imagined himself accountable for, Dean felt he deserved to be punished. He was scared that his brother honestly believed he deserved the pain, deserved to hurt, deserved to suffer. The thought was more than enough to make a little brother sick.

The younger realized he was trembling slightly, Sam taking several large gulps of air to help calm himself down.

He had to get his brother to stop looking for injury; had to stop it now before the injuries had a chance to get worse. He knew he could tell Dean what the worry was doing to him; tell him, honestly, that alone he was lost. But such would only cause the elder to feel guilty for having attempted the outlet at all. And the last thing Dean needed was more guilt.

"You don't deserve this," Sam whispered, voice barely audible. He swept a hand through his brother's hair in a kind impulse that he would never have yielded to, had not the elder been lost to a drugged sleep. "Of all the people in the world why _you_ would think you deserve this…"

He had no idea what, but Sam _had_ to think of something.


	6. Chapter 6

That Ache  
Chapter Six

Author's Note: Sorry about the delay; you (and I) have my first and only Beta to thank for everything from here on out! The next chapter shouldn't be nearly so long in coming, it's already in the works. And, of course, _please_ do drop a note: good, bad or ugly.

Summary: He had to do something to relieve that ache. Warnings: deals with self harm; some language.

* * *

Three weeks had passed. 

_Dammit, three fucking weeks._

Sam sat with one leg tucked beneath him on some hard bed in some motel he couldn't recall the name of in some city in Oklahoma, distractedly chewing on a granola bar.

He rubbed his eyes. Three weeks had passed and he had yet to speak with his brother. Three weeks – the bruises were faded or gone, the smaller cuts mostly healed, the sutures removed, Dean able to sit in the car and drive again without grimacing… and absolutely nothing solved.

They'd worked a job since and were on their way to another. The previous hunt hadn't been especially difficult, nor especially simple – it was, oddly, as 'normal' as it could have been. And Sam had spent every instant in that shit town in Texas scared out of his mind.

But Dean had been on his game; hadn't tried anything even remotely… self-destructive. And Sam had dared to let hope creep through; hope that he'd been wrong after all, hope that the last injury truly had been accidental.

But, really, he _knew_. Knew such wasn't the truth.

Dean didn't cut every night; he wouldn't constantly go looking for injury either. But how long would it be until the next time?

_How long, Sam? How the fuck much longer can you afford to wait? You have to do something!_

But how in the hell do breach a subject like that? Especially with someone not 'overly fond' of discussing personal matters…

_'Overly fond.'_ Sam snorted quietly, unwilling to wake his brother.

Trying to get the elder to open up was like… Hell, Sam couldn't think of an adequate comparison. It seemed the only time he would even allow a serious discussion was when it was to help the younger.

Sam blinked. Sitting in the fresh light of dawn he came to realize just how much he and his brother had been talking lately – and not just about girls or cars or movies, but _really_ talking.

The night Dean had found him in the bathroom, they had sat up nearly until sunrise, the elder discussing whatever Sam felt need to talk about, allowing the conversation to drift wherever Sam had seemed to need it to drift. When he thought Sam was contemplating suicide, Dean had not only allowed the dialogue, but had allowed space when Sam needed space and allowed himself to be close when Sam needed him close.

Dean had taken off his carefully prepared and perfected mask to aid Sam with his pain and his grief; had revealed that he too was cutting, that he had held a pistol between his teeth at fifteen. To help his little brother, Dean had divulged that which he would never have spoken of…

_For me…_

Sam rubbed his eyes; he hadn't even realized just how much his brother had done for him, was yet doing for him.

And not only with the cutting. Every nightmare, every vision, every single fucked up thing that had happened to Sam since he left Stanford, Dean had been there – been there for him. Sam continued to throw shit in his brother's face – premonitions, cutting, telekinesis – simply expecting the elder to deal with it and not question him.

And Dean had done whatever Sam had needed him to do. He went back to Kansas, left in the middle of the night to who-knows-where, Michigan, had found a way to stop Sam from needing to cut.

_He'll do it for me. Selfless bastard. Fuck, how can he think he deserves to suffer?_

Sam bit his lip. He knew Dean wouldn't speak of his darkest thoughts to help himself… But if Sam could make it so that discussing such appeared to be for the younger's benefit alone…

He sighed, a few of the more daring strands of sunlight reaching through the torn drapes to trace the faded bedspread of the quiet room. Sam leaned back against the headboard, taking a bite of the granola, musing on the lattice pattern the sunlight created along his legs.

Swallowing, he set the musili on the nightstand, checking on his sleeping brother before turning back to the strands of light. Leaning forward slightly, Sam pushed up his shirtsleeves, holding his forearm under the trellis pattern of sunlight, appreciating the way it decorated his skin.

Sighing, Sam traced the mostly faded lines marking his flesh. Most of the cuts had long since healed and vanished; only a few of the deepest slashes yet leaving their impression.

He'd lied when Dean had asked him if he'd ever cut before. Well… no; he hadn't exactly "lied"… he'd 'Obi-Wan-ed it.'

Sam shook his head, laughing that his brother's phrases had made their way into his thoughts. He hadn't _lied_… equivocated, yes, but not lied. He'd told a half truth. What he'd said was 'true… from a certain point of view.'

The younger still remembered watching "Star Wars" with his brother, still remembered Dean laughing his ass off at the line. The elder had declared it their family motto and every half-truth or near lie they'd told from that moment on had been dubbed 'Obi-Wan-ing it'.

And Sam had taken liberty with the phrase.

The time his brother had found him, bleeding, in the bathroom had been the first time Sam had cut since returning to hunting. "_Have you done this before?_" His answer _had been_ true… from a certain point of view.

Sam sighed, squeezing his hands into sharp fists. He hated lying to his brother – which was just as well, considering he was terrible at it. Dean had been able to see through his lies since before Sam had learned the word.

But when he equivocated – when he 'Obi-Wan-ed it' – there was that hint of truth that just allowed him to appear sincere. He didn't much care for using half-truths with his brother either… but sometimes such was necessary.

Biting his lip, Sam tugged his sleeves down – he didn't need the temptation; it was time to stop this. He was finally getting the help he needed; his brother was helping him. And what caused his heart to ache somewhat was the blooming realization that Dean would have helped him all along; that he'd never needed to manage on his own.

Or maybe he'd been right those years ago… Sam had started cutting long before the elder… Maybe the only reason Dean hadn't considered him a weak, disgusting freak when he he'd found out was because he had experienced it as well. Maybe if he _had_ gone to his brother when he'd started Dean really would have judged him as bitterly as the younger had feared…

No. No, Sam knew that was horseshit. His brother had never condemned him, never judged him. Not when it came to anything serious. Dean would have helped…

The younger closed his eyes, remembering his first time; locked inside the handicapped stall in the school bathroom, his hands shaking so badly it took him three tries to get the pocketknife to his skin… And the wash of relief that flowed through him with the first rivulets of blood…

It had been pouring rain that day – he remembered his trainers had been soaked through and caked with mud from hunting the night before. It was a Tuesday afternoon like so many others… Nothing special about it, nothing noteworthy or remarkable…

Little things had been adding up, weighing on his shoulders, leaving him frustrated, angry, depressed… And that painfully normal afternoon, the last little burden had been added, sending the careful construction crashing down, violently, around him.

He'd been fighting with his father more than usual, the screaming matches enough to attract the attention of concerned neighbors, the consideration only serving to further infuriate John. The run-down townhouse they were sheltering in – Sam had never been able to say 'living in' when it came to that place – besides being a rat hole, hadn't had hot water or heat in over a week, John being too preoccupied with the current hunt to worry about bringing in any money, Dean's after school hustling only able to cover the rent and groceries enough to get by on.

Home was frustrating and school equally so. Midterm week was racing toward them and Sam felt as though he were drowning in the review work – some of which wasn't even review, but brand new as he'd started attending the current high school after the term had begun. He'd have been fighting to keep up even without the regimented hour of physical training and sparring his father drilled them through every night, without the target practice, without having to run around town searching for clues and interviewing anyone who might have information on John's latest 'evil son of a bitch.'

Plus, Sam had received the honor – and it _was_ an honor, despite what his father had said – to join the scholastic decathlon team, John flat out forbidding him to accept, stating the extra study time would cut into Sam's research and the job came first above all things. Furious, Sam had simply slacked off on the research, doing a half assed job through spite.

And his spite had cost them.

The hunt had gone poorly from the instant it began. It should have been a quick kill – in and out, no difficulties. Instead, endless hours and far too much ammunition later, they had dragged themselves, filthy and aching through the ankle deep mud back to the truck.

And in the end they'd failed. The creature, yes, was dead… But so was the family it had threatened. Parents horribly mauled and mutilated even after life had been rent from their bodies, their teenage son escaping but long enough to make it outside before he was eviscerated in the mud.

Sam knew his crappy research job wasn't the cause of their deaths – they had simply arrived too late. Though the knowledge wasn't enough to stop his stomach from turning when they'd found the youth in the yard.

What he knew _was _his fault, was the wasted ammunition, the wasted time and that his brother had been hurt… And the fact that no one noticed.

As soon as the creature was dead Sam had laid into their father, John yelling right back. They'd both been so absorbed in their latest screaming brawl that neither noticed Dean was stumbling slightly as he walked, that all the color had drained from his cheeks or even that he was cradling his side.

Sam and John had managed to shout without pause for the entirety of the drive back, and continue though the townhouse and into the kitchen where John shouted even while making three cups of instant coffee and Sam had screamed back even while fishing chips from the cupboard.

They'd fought until Dean staggered into the kitchen, made some joke and collapsed, face first to the linoleum, before either his father or brother could steady him.

Sam shuddered in the shafted sunlight of the motel room, tugging his sleeves down though they already covered his wrists.

The injury had been bad, but could have been much, much worse. It was something they could manage on their own and, as such, Dean didn't consider it serious. But they hadn't been able to afford the gas bill, how could they buy painkillers? And, though, the elder had done his damnedest to suffer in silence, it was evident he was hurting.

Dean had told Sam to go ahead and go to school the next day and Sam had gone, even though John was going to be out most of the day making sure their tracks were covered and seeing about getting some money. And as soon as he'd walked into his first class, Sam had hated himself for thinking his tests were so damn important – important enough to leave his injured _brother_ alone in that shit hole they called a residence – and the image of Dean's eyes, glassy with pain, haunted him the entire morning.

He was drowning at school, he'd fucked up at home and just before third period some asshole kid made some crack that managed to include both his 'freak' brother and his mother and Sam had just snapped. It was the kind of remark he would have easily ignored had it been said any other day at any other time, but as it was…

Sam needed a release and he needed it right fucking then.

He'd have run, but to run out the degree of hurt and frustration he was suffering, he would have needed to cover at least five miles and he just didn't have time before his next class. He'd have slugged the kid, but he knew one punch wouldn't cut it and he was worried he'd lose control and bash the little bastard's face in over and over until all the cartilage in his nose had shattered and each hit was met with a just a wet, squishing sound. He'd have just fucking screamed, but in the middle of a high school hallway…

He couldn't control his life – his father dictated it. He couldn't control his grades – he was floundering. He couldn't control the hunt, couldn't control all the death around him, couldn't control his brother's pain and hurt and anguish.

So he'd found himself slamming the door to the handicapped stall, grappling for the pocketknife in his jeans. And when he finally got his shaking hands to drag the blade across his flesh, he felt relief. He felt release and his head cleared. He was in control. He controlled the slashes.

And with the second and the third, he let the ache that had built up inside of him wash out with the blood. He let the guilt and the worry and the sensation of drowning all flow right out of him in narrow streams of coppery burgundy. And he felt so little pain through the relief… It was but a little prick in the back of his mind reminding him that he was alive and that he was bleeding.

He'd been only five minutes late for his next class and he'd gotten more accomplished in his next two periods than he'd dared to hope was possible.

The relief and clear-headedness was still buzzing through him when he'd gotten home that afternoon, the sensation swelling when he found his father already getting some food prepared and his brother resting peacefully, their kitchen table buried under fresh first aid supplies.

That night, when Dean asked him how school had been, Sam simply replied that it was fine, just busy with exams. He didn't mention the cutting. Didn't mention it the next time things got to be too much and he thought he was losing control to the point where he tore his own flesh. Nor the time after that, nor any time following.

Sam never even considered telling his father. He fought with the man, he didn't talk with him. John would have thought him weak, would have been furious… No, Sam couldn't confide in his father.

And Dean… Sam was afraid his big brother would be disgusted with him, would think him some twisted, sick fuck; was afraid Dean would be angry and disappointed and turn his back on him. Or Dean would treat him like lace spun from glass, ready to shatter at any moment, lose it and start up with his sordid habit once again

So, Sam kept his secret. And he cut when the ache made it hard to breathe, cut when he felt he'd lost all control of everything and everyone around him, cut when the jobs were so fucking horrific it was a miracle his mind didn't shut down completely leaving him a vegetable in a strait jacket.

And he cut when he escaped to college. Cut out his father's irate words. Cut out the hurt look scarring his brother's features. Cut out the irritating knowledge that he was abandoning his family and that if he wasn't hunting there was a chance innocents could be hurt.

But once he'd cut out the regret and the remorse and the guilt, Sam put his knife away. He cleaned himself up, accepted his new roommate's offer for a tour and a drink and had fallen into a life he was suited to.

For four years he'd been, for the most part, happy. And when he got stressed, or when he missed his family, Sam surrounded himself with friends and laughter and cheer and it kept the knife sheathed beneath his mattress. And when he met Jessica… Once he met Jess, Sam simply never felt the desire to self-harm.

But she died. And Sam was hunting again. And none of it was Dean's fault, but he knew the elder would blame himself.

And after that job in fucking Georgia, and the solid week of nightmares and no sleep, he just couldn't fucking _help_ it anymore. He didn't _want_ to stop himself. He wanted release from the ache and the guilt and the images of the woman he loved burning.

And he wanted to be caught…

He was still deathly afraid of what Dean would say, but, shit, he was in such _pain_ and he needed someone to know it. He needed someone to _help._

But when Dean had come into the bathroom to find him bloody, Sam had panicked. He saw hurt and fear and anger all flashing across his brother's face and he knew he'd been right not to tell the elder he was cutting when he was younger and that he was wrong to have let him find out now.

And he believed that to be true until his arms were bandaged and Dean had sat down beside him, gently passing him a towel to wipe away the tear-streaked blood on his cheeks. Had believed it until his brother's arm was around his back and _"It's okay Sammy."_ Believed it until they started talking and until Dean had not only failed to judge him harshly, but began doing everything Sam could have imagined to help the younger as well as some things Sam would never have thought of.

Believed it until Sam sat in streaky sunlight in some shitty motel, after one of the worst nights of his life, with his sleeves rolled down and all their knives stowed securely in their bags or the trunk.

And Sam knew he'd been and idiot and an asshole. He should have gone to his brother that first Tuesday afternoon.

But he hadn't told him then because he'd been afraid Dean would be revolted. And he didn't tell him now because he was afraid his brother would feel guilty – would believe that if he'd just taken better care of Sam when they were kids then, not only would Sam have never felt the need to cut in the first place, but the younger would have been able to come to him those years ago instead of trying to cope alone.

It wasn't even in the same hemisphere as truth, but Sam knew his brother had a penchant for self-depreciation and for taking full responsibility for things he held no fault in.

And Sam would _not_ grant his brother any excuse for misplaced guilt.

Somehow, some way, he had to make things better; not worse. And he had to it soon, because three weeks was too fucking long.


	7. Chapter 7

That Ache  
Chapter Seven

Author's Note: Well, the last chapter wasn't received as well as I'd hoped, but I thought I'd put this one out there regardless. Reviews remind us that's it's still worth posting! So, please do drop a note; good, bad or ugly. And another huge thanks to my wicked Beta!

Summary: He had to do something to relieve that ache. Warnings: deals with self harm; some language.

* * *

Sam stifled a gasp of pain, steeling himself not to rip his arm away from his brother's ministrations. "Shit!" 

"Dude, keep still!"

"Yeah, just take it easy, will you? It's still attached!"

"And you're damn lucky it is! That thing nearly took it clean off!"

Sam hissed, squeezing the sheets as the elder meticulously treated the ragged gash that spilt his left arm from shoulder to elbow. "Mother fucker…"

"What the hell did you think you were you doing back there?"

The younger felt a bloom of anger pulse through him. "Hunting bad things. You know, the usual."

"Dammit, Sam!" Dean began bandaging the laceration. "What the fuck were you thinking getting in my way like that? Didn't you see I had the fucking rifle up? Were you trying to get your head blown off?"

Sam felt his anger swelling. He hissed vehemently, "You weren't going to fire."

"Well, duh, Sam! I'm not going to intentionally replace your skull with buckshot! But – fuck! – if you'd have been a second later…"

"You weren't going to fire at all!" the younger spat.

"Yeah, that makes a lot of fucking sense!"

Sam's eyes narrowed at his brother, the elder fastening the bandage. "I'm not stupid, you know! I know you were trying to goad it into taking a piece out of you!"

"Are you fucking high or something?"

"Dean! You promised me you wouldn't cut, so now you're trying to get yourself wounded during the hunt!" Sam's breath shuddered in anger and fear. "You're going to get yourself killed! Is that what you want?"

"Don't ask retarded questions."

Sam snorted then shook his head slowly. "We need to do something about this. This can't go on."

"There's nothing going on!" Dean clipped the bandage, leaning back from his brother.

"That's bullshit and you know it!" Sam sighed, looking down. "Dean… Tell me about that kid. Tell me about when you started cutting."

"Excuse me?"

"Tell me about that kid. Help me understand what's happening with you. Let me help you…"

"No, Sam," Dean turned away, beginning to neatly repack the first aid kit. "We aren't doing this. We aren't talking about this. This is ridiculous!"

"I need to know."

"Why?" the elder spat. "It didn't involve you! You weren't there!"

"It's destroying you!"

"I'm fine!"

"Bullshit!" Sam held his bandaged arm carefully. "You told me to come to you… Why don't you take your own fucking advice?"

"I wasn't the one who wanted to be caught!"

Silence greeted the elder's exclamation. The words wrapped around Sam, the young man opening his mouth to speak, but finding no vocabulary at his disposal. Sam looked at his brother, taken aback by Dean's quick breaths and shuttered, nearly wild eyes.

"What… What do you mean?" Sam asked hesitantly.

"Nothing," Dean dismissed, turning back to the medical supplies spread across the table.

The younger shook his head, not trying to hide the first shimmer of tears lighting in his eyes. "Why can't you… Dammit… Don't you trust me?"

Dean looked to his brother's sad, hurt face. "Dude, there are two people in this world that I do trust. Why don't you take a stab in the dark as to who they are?"

"Then why won't you talk to me about this? Why won't you let me help?"

"Me? What the fuck about you?"

Sam blinked, puzzled. "What..."

"You told me that _you_ trusted _me_."

"I do!" Sam sputtered. "Do you really think I'd be trying to have this discussion if I didn't?"

"Yeah? If you trust me, then when were you planning on telling me the truth?"

"About what?" the younger felt his grasp on the conversation slipping.

"About your cutting." Dean took a step toward his brother, managing to appear taller than Sam despite his height. "About why you started. And when."

The younger felt the color draining from his cheeks. "I told you…"

"You told me a lie. Or one of your half-truths, which is the same thing."

Sam closed his eyes, sinking onto the bed, knees suddenly feeling weak. "That night you found me… It was the first time since I started hunting again."

"Yeah. And before that? Want to tell me about when we were kids?"

"Shit…" Sam lowered his eyes to the floor. "How do you even know about that?"

"I'm your brother… And I'm not an idiot." He met Sam's questioning gaze without blinking. "That time in the motel… The slashes were perfect; even, none too deep to need stitches or to scar. And it's pretty plain that you're… addicted… That would have had to have happened awfully quickly, don't you think?"

"It could…"

"Yeah, but it didn't." Dean stood over his brother. "So why don't we cut the bullshit? I knew when we were kids too."

Sam looked up, threatening tears growing heavier. "You did?"

"You really think I wouldn't notice? The long sleeved shirts in summer, the three weeks we spent in Miami when you didn't want to go swimming once, the pocket knife in the medicine cabinet…"

"Oh man…" Sam squeezed his temples. "I thought…"

"And I should have said something then… But, you know what, Sam? I _fucked_ up. I thought you were just going through some teenager thing. Just some insubstantial little phase that you wanted to deal with on your own. Because I didn't know _shit_ about cutting and I thought you were just acting out."

"I'm sorry," the younger muttered. "I just… Fuck. Sometimes things just got to be too much, you know? I felt like I'd lost control of everything. And I just needed to… It just… It hurt… And the cutting… it helped…"

"You never said anything."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, "I couldn't… Damn. I knew I couldn't talk to Dad…"

"Yes, you could have."

"No. We were screaming at each other at least once a week then…"

"He's your father."

"Still…" For a moment, Sam entertained the idea of letting the conversation drift to John – if they were quarreling about their father, Sam wouldn't have to complete his confession… But arguing about John wouldn't help his brother. "And I… I was scared to talk to you about it."

"What?"

"I was afraid… Of what you'd say, how you'd react, how you'd look at me if you knew…" Sam hugged himself with his good arm. "I thought… I thought you'd be repulsed. That you'd think I was some twisted, sick, little freak…"

Dean sank heavily onto the second bed, back to his brother.

"I'm sorry…" Sam whispered.

"_You're_ sorry?" A shudder raced up the elder's spine. "Dammit, Sammy… Whatever… Whatever I did that made you think you couldn't turn to me… Couldn't confide in me…"

"Dean…"

" 'Sorry' isn't enough."

"Dean," Sam rose stepping to the opposite bed. "It wasn't your fault. I didn't let you help me."

"Because you were scared." His hands closed into fists. "I should have been there for you."

"You can't blame yourself for something _I_ did as a kid."

"Were you cutting in college too?"

"No," Sam swallowed. "I cut the first day I got there and not again until… until you caught me."

Dean closed his eyes, glad Sam had allowed him to keep his back to him. He cursed himself bitterly – his baby brother had felt the need to cut while he was with him growing up and again once they were back together… but not while Sam was at school, not while they were separated. "Shit, Sammy…"

"Dean…"

"You were clean for four years?"

"Clean? Yeah…"

"Why'd you start again? Why'd you slash at yourself in that motel?"

"Because I… Because of the guilt and Jess and… Because I was in _pain_, man." He looked away even though he couldn't see his brother's face. "And I needed someone to know. Because I needed to fucking _talk_ to someone."

Dean shifted, twisting to face the younger, "What?"

"I needed to _talk_ about all this shit. I needed to talk to you! And I just… I know how you hate your emotional discussions."

The look that crossed Dean's face sucked all the air from the younger's lungs, "You thought I wouldn't listen… wouldn't try to help unless… unless you put a blade to your wrists?"

Abruptly, Sam felt like the selfish bastard he'd been accused of being. "I didn't mean it like that…"

"Yes, you did."

"Dean…"

"Fuck. Is that what I…" The elder ran his hand through his hair. "Fuck. How did I become this? How could I… How did I let it get to where you thought you couldn't come to me?"

"Dean," Sam stepped forward. "You've helped me, man. _Are_ helping me. More than you know."

"How did I fuck up this badly?"

"Dean," the younger's voice became firm, Sam watching his brother begin rubbing at his arm, recognizing the gesture for what it was. "This is _not_ your fault. This is what _I_ did."

"I'm sorry, Sam. You can come to me, you know? With… With anything. Any time… I'm not… I'm not going to judge you or…"

"I know." Sam reached out to catch his brother's wrist, holding it still, worried by the glimmer of hysteria radiating from the elder. "Stop it. I know."

"When… When we were kids…"

"I don't want to talk about when we were kids." He forced his brother to meet his eyes. "I want to talk about now. I want you to trust me and let me take my turn at helping you, for once." Sam saw his brother about to make some retort, the younger not giving him the chance. "Because it's tearing me up that you're helping me with all my shit and I can't do crap for yours."

"I'm all right, Sam."

"You're not, though. You're not." The younger bit his lip. "You're not the only one who can read his brother… Your cutting… it's not just about release, or relieving an ache… You think you deserve it, don't you? That you deserve to be punished? To hurt? To suffer?"

Dean stood abruptly, "We're not doing this."

"So, what? You'll talk as long as it's about me? As long as it's only my problems?"

"I _want_ to _help_ you."

"You think I don't return the sentiment?" Sam shook his head. "Dean, the shit that affects you affects me too. Especially if it gives you a death wish."

"I don't have a death wish!"

"I can't stand seeing you getting yourself hurt! Fuck, Dean! This can't go on! We need to deal with this! And it's pretty clear you aren't coping on your own!"

"Fuck off, Sam! I'm fine!"

"Do you have any idea how much guilt I feel at not being able to help you? At not even being able to _try_?" Sam watched the expression on his brother's face change. "You say you trust me…"

"Of course I do…"

"Then _talk_ to me! Let me fucking _try_!" The younger drew a long breath. "You said you started 'cause a kid was killed?"

"Yeah…"

"Well, Dean, I hate that it's true… but that's happened before. Why did this one get to you?"

"Let it alone, Sammy. Please."

Sam frowned, his brother wasn't one for 'please.' "Dean, what happened?"

"Nothing you need to worry about."

The younger shook his head. "Look, I get that you want to protect me, but I'm a grown up, all right? I can handle it. I need to know." Sam sighed when his brother didn't reply. "Does Dad know what happened?"

"Yeah. But he didn't see it…"

"If Dad knows then it isn't a secret. I can know too."

"No, Sam…"

"Dean, that little girl…"

"Boy. It was little boy."

Sam grasped for straws, deciding to stick with what his brother allowed until he could draw out more. "How old?"

"His seventh birthday was two weeks away."

Expression gentle, Sam pressed, "His name?"

"Evan Michaels…" Dean started rubbing at his forearm again. "Kid was obsessed with 'Power Rangers'… His favorite was the blue one, just like yours."

"When did you meet him?"

"Couple months after you went to Stanford…" The elder slid his hand beneath his sleeve to rub at bare skin. "It was just him and his mom… The dad bailed as soon as he found out his girlfriend was pregnant."

"Asshole."

"Yeah… But, um… You know… All they had was each other."

"Dean," Sam caught his brother's wrist once more. "What happened to him? What happened to Evan? Please… you have to tell me."

"He died."

"How, Dean?" Sam hadn't realized how much trepidation had seeped into him. He _almost_ hoped his brother wouldn't reply. "You can trust me. Please, trust me. I _need_ to know you can. I _need_ to know that you do. It'll _help me_, to know that you do…"

"Dammit, Sammy…" the elder muttered, voice barely above a breath.

"What happened to that little boy, Dean?"

"Fuck..."

The nervousness swelled, but Sam knew his brother was close to caving – deep down he'd always known the elder would do anything for him… and that included revealing the worst things to ever transpire in his life. "Please, Dean. Tell me what happened to Evan."

And in the following instant, Sam wished he'd never asked.

Dean's voice was ragged as he whispered, "I killed him…"


	8. Chapter 8

That Ache  
Chapter Eight

Author's Note: Well… you asked for it. Thanks to my Beta and all who reviewed! Again, please let me know if it's worth bringing this to an end by leaving me your suggestions, notions and notes; good, bad or ugly.

Fingers crossed that let me update!

Summary: He had to do something to relieve that ache. Warnings: deals with self harm; some language.

_

* * *

Dean's voice was ragged as he whispered, "I killed him." _

Rain lashed against the thin glass of dusty windows, the storm loud in the sudden silence. A nauseating dizziness swirled through Sam's head, the young man astounded by the force with which three little words could strike.

"What?" His voice was barely audible, the younger taking a step back from his brother without realizing it.

"I killed him, Sam."

"What… what do you mean… killed him?"

"I put a bullet in his skull and two in his chest."

Sam staggered, haunted by the lack of emotion in his brother's voice. He forced his eyes up and found he couldn't breathe beneath the anguish painted in vivid colors across Dean's countenance, the sentiment quickly shielded as the elder brought down every last one of the barriers he'd been constructing and perfecting since he was five.

"I don't… You wouldn't…"

"I did."

"There…" he shook his head. "There has to be something… some reason… I know you wouldn't… Would never…"

"Maybe your opinion of me is just too damn high, little brother."

Sam looked at the elder – looked straight at that fucking perfect mask and hated that he could see nothing beneath it. His chest fluttered and he wondered just how low Dean's opinion of himself truly was.

"Dean… What… What happened?"

"I told you – "

"No… I mean…" Sam closed his eyes, head spinning. His limbs felt weak and he wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to remain standing. "What…"

_Get it together, Sam! Come on! Breathe!__  
_  
"What was the job?"

Dean squeezed his arm subconsciously, "It was a possession."

Sam felt a flash of light and hope that calmed the sickening turmoil within him, "Dean… Man, if you were possessed… You couldn't have stopped it! It wasn't your fault; there was nothing you…"

"I wasn't."

"What?"

"I wasn't possessed."

"Oh…" All the hope the younger had gleaned plummeted out of his blood and he felt himself sagging. "I… Hell…"

Sam didn't realize he was falling until he hit the mattress. He closed his eyes for a minute, trying to remember how to breathe, feeling colder than he ever recalled being.

Dean turned away from his brother, raking his nails up the inside of his arm. He could see a tow-headed little boy behind his eyes; saw them playing on the floor of Evan's room, the boy trembling as he told Dean about the 'bad man' that no one could see.

"_Are you friends with Mommy?"  
_"_My dad is, yeah."  
_"_Oh… Wanna play Power Rangers with me?"  
_"_Sure! Can I be the red guy?"  
_"_Totally! The blue guy's better, anyway!"_

Dean pressed his nails harder against his skin without being aware of it, shoulders tensing.

"_You'll really make the bad man go away? You promise?"  
_"_Yeah, Buddy. Cross my heart and pinkie swear."_

"Dean?"

"_I do, Dean. I do trust you. I'm so happy you're my friend!"_

"Dean?"

The elder whirled, startled by Sam's voice. Abruptly, he clamped his palm flat against his arm, repairing the shields that had weakened. "What?"

"Was it a demon?"

"Yeah…"

"Why…" Sam pressed his hands through his hair. "Why didn't you find an exorcism?"

"We did – Dad did." The elder brought the last barrier into place, his face again completely neutral and unreadable. "An _Aramaic_ one."

Sam blinked. "Woah."

"Yeah…"

The younger shook his head slightly, realizing he needed more information; he had to start at the beginning. "Tell me about the demon."

"It was old. Way old." Dean pressed his hands into tight fists. "It would… um… It would get into someone and use them to murder everyone close to them before having them commit suicide. Then it would… move on… to the next."

"Holy shit..."

Dean crossed his arms tightly across his chest. "You can see why we were interested."

"But…" Sam frowned. "I don't understand… If you had the exorcism…" He looked up at his brother, "Didn't you just send it back to Hell?"

"We… I… I fucked up!" Dean kicked the chair curtly, regretting the action when his brother flinched.

"I thought it was Dad who found it…"

"And I translated it! And – shit – I got it wrong! I…" The elder turned his back to Sam, smacking his palm against the dresser. "Stupid! I was so fucking…"

"Dean…" Sam forced himself to stand, taking a cautious step toward his brother. "Aramaic, man… That's not something…"

"It didn't expel the demon."

Sam had to strain to hear the low mutter. "What did it –"

"Bound it to the host."

The younger felt a sharp pain of empathy lance through his chest, "Oh sweet hell…"

"It was too late. No going back…" Dean bit the inside of his cheek hard. "That mother fucker was… in control of… of Evan… Permanently… No matter…" He grated his fingers up his arms. "I bound it to that little boy!"

Sam concentrated on forcing air into his lungs. "It would have… Hell, it would have killed the mother and then…" Damn, he fucking _hated_ demons. "It would have just kept right on going. That kid's whole life would have been watching 'himself' commit… Over and again… And he couldn't have done anything…"

Dean didn't turn from the wall. The darkness of another night danced behind his eyes, the terrible laughter of monster scratching through the throat of a tiny child. An innocent. A tow-headed little boy that had trusted him, put his faith in him, bled because of him.

Sam caught the chair back to steady himself, "There would have been no way to reverse it… That was it… The boy was… He was already gone…"

The demon's mocking laughter swirled through the elder's skull. He heard Evan's voiceless, unuttered pleas – _save me, don't leave me, please! You promised! You promised! You were my friend! I trusted you! I believed you! You did this! You did this to me!_

"Dean…"

_Why?_

_Murderer. Murderer. Murderer!_

"Dean," Sam touched the elder's sleeve, stepping back as Dean started, snapping around to face him. "If the demon was bound to corporeal form… If you destroy the host, you destroy the demon."

"That's right…"

"So you shot him – shot _it_." Sam saw only the flawless mask that cloaked his brother's expression. "What else could you have…"

"I should have fucking _known_ what the fucking _verses_ were going to _do_!" Dean snapped. "We could have had it possess someone else!"

The younger man flinched despite himself. "Someone still would have had to die…"

"Better me than that child!"

Sam closed his eyes, "I'm sorry."

"What're you sorry for?"

"It wasn't… wasn't your fault…"

Dean shook his head, looking away. "I shot him. Point blank."

"And then what?"

"What?"

"Then what happened? What did you do?"

Dean gritted his teeth, looking anywhere but his baby brother's eyes – he couldn't stand to see the pity and the shame and the disgust that must be glowing therein. Not directed toward him, not…

"Dean?" Sam clasped the elder's shoulders, frightened by the tremors he felt coursing through Dean's body. "Please. What happened then? Tell me."

Dean couldn't – couldn't tell his little brother. Couldn't tell him how he'd cradled the bloodied and broken little body in the darkness until John managed to locate him; couldn't tell him that he'd carried the small, lifeless boy back to his mother – the woman who had trusted them – trusted _him_ – with her son, with her _child_, to tell her he was dead. He couldn't tell _Sammy_ what she'd said, or about the funeral or the way he'd gone at himself with a hunting knife in the motel bathroom because – _fuck_ – he _did_ deserve to be punished for what he'd done. For the _atrocity_ he'd committed. He deserved everything and worse!

_You sick fuck! You fucking monster!_

"Dean… What did you do then?"

"We got the fuck out of there!" the elder exploded, shoving his brother back sharply. "I murdered a child, remember? In cold blood! We couldn't exactly hang around for cupcakes and beer!"

Sam lowered his eyes, "Dean… I…" He knew what he needed to do – that he should reassure his brother, tell him there wasn't anything else he could have done. It was true. It should have been easy, but Sam felt his throat close up and he couldn't speak.

The elder shook his head once, reaching out to take his jacket off the chair back, opening the door and leaving the room without another word.

Sam swallowed convulsively as the door closed, consciously overriding his instincts to pursue his brother.

It had never ended like this before; no 'goodbye,' no 'be back later,' no snide little joke that would have been offensive had it not been so _Dean._

The younger knew he hadn't been told the whole truth – not a lie, not even an equivocation; just the facts with something surrendered and kept in silence.

He stared at the faded paint of the door, not knowing where else to look. There were times in his life when he'd been worried about his brother – everyone worried. But, for the first time, he was scared – scared out of his mind – terrified as to where Dean would go, what he would do and what he would be like when he got back.

_If_ he got back…

* * *

Sam fidgeted on the hard bed, eyes flicking from the novel he was trying, unsuccessfully, to read to the harsh red display of the clock. Hours had past – some of the longest and slowest of his life. 

The fear he had felt for his brother swarmed into panic. It was late – so late… Any bar Dean might have wandered into would have been long closed…

Sam started as the door swung open. His heart leapt into his throat and caught there, strangling him. "Dean?"

The elder didn't reply; didn't so much as look in the direction of his brother. Icy water trailed off his body and clothes, puddling on the thin carpet, Dean shivering visibly.

Eyes lighting with concern, Sam moved to rise, halting as Dean simply turned his back to him, peeling off the soaked jacket and shirt underneath.

Hauling off sodden jeans, Dean reached for the switch on the lamp, clicking off the light and slipping into bed without a word, heedless of the fact that his boxers, hair and skin were all just as wet as the clothes he had abandoned on the floor.

Sam swallowed, blinded momentarily by the sudden darkness. Nervously, he set the book on the nightstand, lying back on his own bed.

The younger lay awake for a long time, listening to his brother's breaths and, once his eyes had adjusted, watching the elder's shoulders rising and falling. It was a fair while before Sam believed him to truly be sleeping.

Sam's chest was painfully tight. He'd had no idea the kinds of things his brother had been through. He'd had no idea how… 'messed up'… Dean was.

And he knew it wasn't just Evan. The child had been a trigger…

Sam didn't lie to himself – he was sure he knew less than half of the dire, unspeakable atrocities his brother had borne witness to, had been forced to play a part in and try to set right. Dean had always flirted casually with the darkness in their lives; Sam had been a fool to buy into the easy act of unaffectedness.

How the elder could bear so much hurt and still manage to wake with a smile for his brother, still manage to joke lightheartedly as they ground up the miles on the highway, still manage to set it all aside and caringly aid the younger with any little issue that troubled him, Sam had no idea.

_Because, Sammy, he's your big brother. _Sam squeezed his eyes shut.

Resolutely, Sam determined it was long past time for him to set his own troubles aside – and doing so would not be so difficult as he may have feared, for Dean had already alleviated so many of his anxieties, had already soothed Sam's mind and heart.

Sam had been in pain; had cried out for help and had embraced it as it was given. But now it was time for _him_ to be the one offering aid and relief and freedom from such agony.

It was time for him to give aid to the selfless big brother who would never admit to needing it.


	9. Chapter 9

That Ache  
Chapter Nine

Author's Note: Well… here she is! Thanks again to my fantastic Beta and all of you out there who took the time to share your thoughts! There should be one chapter left after this one, if, of course, anyone still wants to read it. Please do leave your notes; good, bad and ugly.

Summary: He had to do something to relieve that ache. Warnings: deals with self harm; some language.

* * *

Sam was surprised how quickly he could go from terrified, to only slightly concerned, back to terrified again. He'd woken the morning after Dean's… confession, to the sound of the shower running; surprised he'd drifted off at all. Nervous, he'd crawled from beneath the covers, gotten dressed and made some instant coffee, while consciously trying not to concentrate on the way that his stomach roiled in apprehension when the water shut off. 

He tried to prepare himself for anything - for rage, bitterness, violence, silence… And in the end, he had worried about every eventuality save for that which he was met with.

Dean was… himself. In the following days, Sam watched him closely, and, though the elder steadfastly refused to discuss or mention Evan or the demon, Dean seemed… fine. He was eating, sleeping, talking, joking and working as though naught had transpired.

Dean seemed completely unaffected. And Sam knew anyone save himself, who had spent more time in close proximity to his big brother than any other two people could, would have missed it.

The elder had come out of the bathroom that first morning with all his shields drawn across his countenance and had yet to lift any of them. No one else would have noticed… Sam did. And he worried.

Dean always wore a mask of calm indifference – for him to take that off completely took something extreme. Around strangers – on the job, in the bars, in the diners – Dean added layers to his barriers and did so effortlessly. But around Sam he had never had need for all the schooled makeup.

When the elder smiled at a stranger, he simply smiled, and the girl or the cop or the witness saw and believed it genuine. Sam knew otherwise; knew because when Dean smiled at his little brother – or, Sam recalled from their childhood, their father – there was a little glimmer of that grin in his eyes.

To Sam, it was an unspoken declaration of trust and recognition and the brotherly love he never doubted, but which neither spoke of.

But now… when Dean flashed him that trademark grin, that was all it was. The shields were down and they were bolted tight.

And Sam was scared to death as to what his brother was hiding behind those barriers – barriers that Sam had never seen so high and so thick, not when guarding against him.

* * *

Dean let out an exasperated groan, shucking a heavy duffle onto the simple table in the room. "I hate small towns." 

Sam chuckled, closing the door behind them. "When we were in Denver, you said you hated big cities."

"Yeah," the elder smirked. "I hate small town people and big city traffic."

"Can't be helped then," Sam jibed, desperately searching his brother's grin for that little glimmer he'd taken for granted since childhood, but finding nothing – Dean's shields were still in place.

"Guess not." He nodded toward the bag. "Get it over with so we can go for beers?"

"You're gonna wind up an alcoholic."

"Not for a few more years," the elder quipped. He unzipped the bag, pulling out a .45, along with a pair of hunting knives that had taken a beating on their last hunt, arranging the supplies to clean and sharpen them. "Giving me a hand here, or what?"

"Yeah," Sam stepped to the table, quickly taking the knives from his brother. "You take the Beretta."

Dean raised an eyebrow, not missing the gesture. He shook his head, "All right, Sam, what the hell is going on?"

The younger sought frantically to pull an innocent expression over his features. "Weapons maintenance." He gestured the gear spread over the table, sitting casually across from his brother. "Your idea, remember?"

Clearing his throat, Dean looked pointedly to the blades sitting before the younger.

Sam followed his gaze nonchalantly. "What?" He forced a dismissive grin, "I'm not gonna cut."

"I know." The elder's tone was sober and cold. "You expect me to?"

"Dude," Sam desperately hoped the innocent look still hid his countenance. "You're quicker with the gun than me. I thought you'd want to get this done fast so we –"

"Sam, I'm not an idiot," he cut his brother off. "Don't treat me like one."

"What're you talking about?" Sam felt his cheeks burning, praying he hadn't flushed – he knew exactly what the elder meant.

"Come off it, man," Dean snorted in the back of his throat. "You've got the knife under my pillow sheathed or packed away before I can finish taking a piss in the morning…"

"If everything's packed we can leave sooner," the younger rationed weakly.

"You've taken your razor out of the bathroom."

"So what?" Sam shrugged. "You use the electric anyway."

Dean raised an eyebrow, anger staining his tone. "You're watching me like a fucking hawk and it's driving me insane! And don't even _dream_ of claiming you don't know what I'm talking about!"

The younger lowered his eyes to the tabletop. "I'm worried about you…"

"Why?" the elder demanded haughtily.

"All this shit that's happened…"

"Are we living in different worlds or something?" Dean snapped. "Things've been going pretty damn well lately, Sam! That last job –"

"I meant with…" The younger took a steadying breath, preparing for an onslaught. "With Evan…"

"That was _four_ years ago!" Dean smacked his palm down on the table. "Four fucking years! No one worried about me then, why the piss should anyone worry now?"

Sam flinched, "Dad didn't worry about you?"

The elder pursed his lips, glaring, "Dad had the decency to take me at my word when I told him I was all right."

Sighing inaudibly, Sam shook his head. That was typical – the dictated Winchester response to anything and everything was 'suck it up, shrug it off and don't mention it again.'

"But you aren't all right…"

"Ah, hell, Sam! Come on!"

"You aren't acting like yourself…"

"What?" Dean barked. "How in the hell am I not acting like myself?"

Sam clamped down hard on his tongue. If he told his brother about that little ghost of a smile that used to reflect in his eyes, Sam would never see it again; Dean would bolt down the shields even tighter.

The elder snorted at the lack of response and shook his head. "At least Dad got the hell off my back."

Sam looked up, bracing himself, "It wasn't your fault. With that boy… None of it was your fault."

"Shut up!" Dean snapped vehemently, not missing the little flash of shock that went through his brother at his tone. "Just fucking stop! I don't want your damn pity! Your half-assed sympathy!"

"Dean…"

"The only reason you're forgiving me is because you fucking have to! You're in a position where you've got no option!"

"What?" Sam questioned, honestly confused.

"You can't fucking afford to blame me! Because, right now, you're stuck with me! And you _need me _to help you get your fucking revenge!"

"That is not…"

"Yes it is!" The elder hissed, "Face it, Sammy. If you'd have been at Stanford when you found out – if I had called you the night I shot that little child – you'd have just fucking disowned me. Just denied you ever had a brother to begin with!"

Sam could barely breathe for the lance that had driven through his chest. "That's not true."

"No? Your views on murder were always black and white, little brother."

"Nothing is black and white. There're always shades of grey…"

"Oh yeah?" Dean scoffed. "What would all your college friends say if they knew you were hanging out with a murderer?"

"Dammit, you are not a murderer!" Sam screamed in exasperation. His breaths heaved, "You… You're my brother. I know you…"

"And you know I killed someone! So what does that make me?"

Sam sighed weakly, squeezing the bridge of his nose, "Dammit, Dean…"

"And now you're stuck with a killer you don't trust."

The younger shook his head, meeting his brother's gaze directly. "You are _not_ a killer. And I _do_ trust you – beyond life and reason."

"Bull."

"No, it isn't."

"You don't even bloody trust me to sharpen the knives! You don't trust me not to cut myself. Or to help you with your cutting…"

"I think it's pretty obvious that I _do_ trust you with _that_. I _wanted_ you to catch me, remember?"

"And since that night?"

"Since that night you've done more for me than I could have possibly imagined!"

"All right… and what about since I told you about Evan?"

Emotion that Sam had struggled so hard to control was bearing down upon him. "Dean… I haven't cut…"

"You haven't come to me either."

"I've been all right…"

"Don't fucking lie to me!" Dean shoved his chair back sharply. "You think I don't notice the fucking nightmares, Sammy?"

"They're just nightmares…"

"_Just?_" Dean retorted. "Yeah, _just_ nightmares that leave you fucking breathless and smearing half a bucket of ice up your arms!"

Sam paled, "You saw that?"

"I was trained to wake at the sound of a door opening! So, yeah, I notice when you're shouting in your sleep then spend the next hour trying not to resort to a blade!" The elder shook his head, "I thought you were going to come to me, Sam. When you felt the need to slash yourself apart!"

"Don't you see, though, man," Sam's voice gleaned a desperate hope. "You've helped me so much that I'm at the point where I can deal with it on my own. Where I can get through a bad night _without_ falling back on the slashes."

"So, you'd rather cope alone?"

"Dean…" Sam closed his eyes. "Look, I…" He sighed, "You've done so much for me. I just… I wanted to put it aside – put my shit aside for the moment – and see if I couldn't do the same for you. See if I couldn't help you…"

"So, you think I'm so damn weak and fragile that I can't deal with what's happening to you?"

"That isn't it at all. That's not what I said." Sam took a long, calming breath. "Look, I _know_ how hard this is. And, yes, I'm sorry, but I worry about you. I know how easy it is to slip…"

"To 'slip,' huh?" Dean scowled, anger blooming in his expression. "You figure I 'slipped,' do you?"

"That isn't…"

"Well, here, Sam!" Dean shoved his sleeves up brutally, displaying the unbroken skin of his forearms. "Are you fucking satisfied now?"

"Look, Dean, I…"

"No! Don't 'look, Dean' me! I made you a promise, Sam! A fucking promise! So, what? You don't take me at my word anymore? That it?"

"Of course I do! I just…" The younger forced several deep breaths, determined to stay calm. "This isn't… isn't something you can just stop. Especially not your own like this."

Dean snorted, "You quit on your own at college."

"Yeah, and a great job I did! First sign of trouble and I'm back at it again." He shook his head, "You helped me… You did. And I want to help you."

The elder squeezed his hands into fists, setting his brother with a firm stare. "You have no idea the shit that I've done, Sam. That I've seen."

"I realize that…"

"Good! Then smarten up and realize that you don't to _want_ to fucking know either!"

"If it'll help you to talk about…"

"Play Dr. Phil with someone else, Sammy boy! I ain't interested!"

"I can handle it, you know? Knowing about this stuff. You don't have to try and protect me from it."

Dean scoffed, "If you could have handled it, then you'd have been there when it all went it down! But I didn't fucking see you covering me!" He shook his head, "Or maybe you could have handled it… You were just too fucking _busy_ with your damn pep-rallies and bake sales to find time to _watch your brother's back!_"

"That's right, Dean…" Sam sneered. "Every time we disagree about something you manage to bring up my leaving for school. Just throw it my face again! What the fuck do you want from me, man! You want an apology or something? You want me to say, 'Oh, Dean! I'm so sorry that I had to get away from hunting and the life that I _hated_, that you damn well _knew_ I hated!' Well, forget that!"

"I don't want some weak ass apology from you! Just don't you dare believe that you can understand…"

"Give it a rest! I _can_ understand! I just don't _know! _And I only don't know because you're just too fucking _tough_ to talk about anything! But _I'm_ the selfish bastard, right?"

"You just didn't care –"

"Oh, bullshit!" Sam snapped. "Let's not even start with that crap, all right?" He seethed, "You could have done anything you wanted too! Don't bitch at me just because I actually _did_! You could have gone to any college you wanted, same as me!"

"Oh, sure. Yeah, I remember them just begging me to attend! Just throwing the fucking scholarships at my door!"

"You were always smart enough! You just never tried, 'cause Dad –"

"Stop!" Dean waved his arm angrily. "Maybe I do bring up your leaving… throw it in your face. But you throw Dad in mine! How I never think beyond his little 'crusade'! How I'm, just his good fucking little soldier!"

"Son of a bitch!" Sam exploded. "I was possessed when I said that! Fucking possessed! And I _tried_ to fucking apologize for it even then! And what did you say? Something to the extent of: 'Chill Sammy. You think I'm some fucking greenhorn who's never dealt with possession before.' Am I warm?"

The younger drew up to his full height, "And you said you didn't blame me!"

"I don't…"

"Well, you know what, Dean; if you forgive someone – if you never fucking _blamed them_ in the first place – you can't use that shit against them!"

The elder snarled, "You're going stand there and preach to me about fucking _forgiveness?_ You think you have that right?"

"Dean…" Sam growled, voice low in warning.

"Shut up!" the elder snapped. "You're going to tell _me_ to _forgive_! I've forgiven everything in my life! And you? You can't even fucking forgive Dad – forgive him for doing the best that he fucking could for us! You can't forgive me for getting you from Stanford! All I ever get from your ungrateful ass is whining about wanting to go back!"

Dean threw his arms out in exasperated fury, "And, you know what, Sam…" His voice dropped to a hiss. "You can't even forgive yourself for some damn _demon_ setting your precious little girlfriend on fire! Even though you've stopped giving a _fuck_ that it happened to Mom too!"

"Fuck you!" Sam hollered, swinging his fist around in a vicious right hook.

As soon as the punch was thrown, thought kicked back in and Sam knew he was going down. The shape shifter had been right – even when they were kids, Dean had always kicked his ass. Even when he gained the height advantage, Dean kicked his ass. And now, with his training having slacked for four years - even if he was still good - Dean was going to kick his ass.

But Sam was going to make him work for it.

Dean caught his fist in the air, twisting his wrist sharply and dragging him around. Sam responded on instinct, worming free and striking low.

The moves were still practiced, if not as graceful as they had been when they trained daily in their youth. Within seconds a wild fist-fight had become a spar.

Sam knew the exact instant he'd lost. He felt Dean force him into the position that used his height against him, one that his brother had used to take him down countless times, one that Sam knew how to counter, but wasn't always fast enough.

He grunted as his knee crumpled, leg swept out from beneath him, his back landing hard on the thin carpeting. Sam tried to move, but the elder had come down with him and Sam found himself with his right arm twisted and braced, a knee pinning his hip to the floor before he could respond.

Sam froze as a hand grasped his throat, the younger man looking up his brother, knowing beyond doubt that his trapped wrist would never be twisted too far, nor the grip on his windpipe tighten.

He panted hard, glad to see the elder was breathing heavily as well. Refusing to break eye contact, he lay still, unable to escape and knowing it was frivolous to try. After a time, he rasped, "Well?" Gaining no response, Sam hissed, "At least the shifter had the balls to squeeze."

Sam watched recognition and guilt flicker across his brother's face as Dean came to fully realize the position they were in. He was surprised when the elder didn't back away immediately.

"You gonna take another swing at me?"

Shame, but not regret burned through the younger, "No."

"All right," Dean rocked back easily onto his heels, standing, letting Sam crawl up to his feet himself.

"Sorry," Sam grumbled, scuffing the toe of his trainer on the floor in a nervous habit he'd picked up from his brother when he was young.

"Fuck it," Dean dismissed. "Hell I deserved it."

The younger man shook his head, closing his eyes, "You don't deserve pain. To suffer. You don't."

"Just get the hell off my back, Sam," the elder hissed.

Sam snorted, "Heaven forbid someone worry about you!"

"Fuck off! I don't need or want your concern! Or your sympathy!"

"What the hell _do_ you want then?"

"I want you to get the fuck out of my face!" Dean ripped his jacket from the chair back. "And I want you to clean that fucking gun and sharpen those blades!"

"And where the hell are you going to be?"

"I am going to hustle some pool so we can pay for this fucking shit hole room! And I'm going to do it without having to put up with your condescending little comments!"

"Well, excuse me for preferring _honest_ money! And why're you really going, Dean?" Sam's eyes were dark with accusation. "Hoping to get your head pounded in, in some damn bar fight? After all, there's no spirit in the immediate vicinity for you to coerce into throwing through a damn wall!"

The elder took one step toward Sam, threat and fury a physical presence orbiting him, "I don't have to, Sam," he hissed venomously. "Not when I've got a little brother who'll try to kick my ass instead."

Sam couldn't reply, standing stricken as, once more, his brother walked out of their small room and into the night.

"_Fuck!_" he hollered at the top his voice, slamming his fist into the wood.

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!_

He'd tried to fix things! Tried to help! Where the _hell_ had he gone so wrong? How the _hell_ could he have screwed up so badly?

Sam now felt truly lost. They'd come so far and he'd destroyed it. He'd destroyed everything and no idea how to begin the mending.


	10. Chapter 10

That Ache  
Chapter Ten

Author's Note: And thus we come to the finale! I apologize for the delay – computer troubles. Please see final note at end.

Summary: He had to do something to relieve that ache. Warnings: deals with self harm; some language.

* * *

The silence in the car had become painful and nearly tangible more than an hour previous, but Sam hadn't been willing to shatter it. The young man cursed the brilliant sunlight washing through the windows – it was out of place and, therefore, unwelcome. 

He itched to turn on the stereo – even the elder's tape collection was preferable to the swirling quiet. But Dean had left the radio turned off and, that morning, Sam wasn't going to fiddle with any of the settings in his brother's car.

If Dean wanted the stereo off, there would be no music. If Sam was hot and the heater was on, he would sweat. If he was cold and the air conditioning was blowing, he would shiver.

The first structures of some random spit of a town interrupted the sun-washed landscape. Sam watched the buildings gather and group, becoming more than just outskirts. Tentatively, he asked, "Want to get breakfast?"

"No." Dean's reply was curt and clipped, the elder not glancing away from the road.

Sam turned to the window, snapped back into silence.

At length, almost as though it were an afterthought, Dean questioned, "You hungry?"

"No," the younger answered gently, even though he was. If his brother didn't want to stop, he could wait to eat.

"Fine."

Sam abhorred the frost in the elder's tone, hated that this was how things had gotten between them.

Dean had returned to the motel absurdly late the night previous, the hour ensuring that Sam would, at least, be pretending to sleep when he arrived. Buzzing with nervousness, Sam hadn't slept a wink, either while Dean was at the bar or after he returned.

Sam had been allowed one calming breath, though: when Dean had stepped back into the room, he wasn't bruised up, cut open or drunk. Self-destruction had, apparently, not been his intent for the evening – and that was something, at least.

The silence stretched on as the miles flew by, sunlight glowing all around them. Biting his lip, Sam tried not to shift around, uncomfortable in the pressing stress within the car. He knew his fidgeting would piss his brother off, and, though there were times such would be his sole intent, that morning was not one of them.

Swallowing a sigh, Sam risked a glance to the elder, finding his attention fixed exclusively on the band of highway and the morning traffic, Dean's expression unreadable.

Finally, Sam couldn't stand it any longer. The silence and the strain was slurring into a crushing ache within him. Suddenly, he didn't care if they quarreled; didn't care if Dean stopped the car, demanding he get the hell out, leaving Sam in the middle of nowhere; didn't care if his brother dragged him out and beat him bloody on the shoulder.

He drew a shaky breath, "Dean?"

Receiving no response, Sam shifted nervously, deciding to go for the throat and get whatever would come, over with and done. "Dean… Honest, man, what happened with that boy and the exorcism –"

"Sam, stop," the elder cut him off curtly. He glanced over, seeing the hurt and anxiety that blurred his brother's expression. Closing his eyes for a moment, Dean sighed heavily, "Look… I am never going to be okay with what happened to Evan. Never. It doesn't matter what you say or what you do."

Dean caught the younger's eyes briefly before turning back to the highway. "But _I_ am going to be okay."

A small frown flickered across Sam's countenance. "I don't understand."

"Some things," Dean began quietly, "you don't get over. They stay with you. They shape you." He looked over at Sam, surprised by the intensity with which the younger man was concentrating on his words. "I mean, some shit you can just deal with and move past… But some things…"

"Some things?" Sam prompted.

"It's not about getting over them. It's about just being able to live with them – co-exist with them. Maybe you can't just get past them, but they don't destroy you either."

"Dean, I don't…"

"What I did to Evan – everything that happened with that demon – is going to stick with me… always. Period. And there're gonna be times –" the elder took a deep breath. "There'll be times when it gets bad; when his face or his voice are going to haunt me. But that's all right. So long as his face isn't the _only_ thing I ever see. I just… I _have_ to _live_ with it. I can't move past it or forget it, but isn't going to control me."

Sam was silent for a time, rolling his brother's words around in his head. "I think… Jess is going to be one of those things for me…"

Dean's gaze went immediately to his brother, the elder ready to protest, but Sam spoke first.

"I mean…" the younger rubbed his forehead. "I believe everything you've told me; I can see the truth in it. Her… death was my first vision; I had no reason to suspect it would actually happen… And… And even if I had, even if I'd have told you and we'd have stayed at the apartment armed and ready that weekend… We…" Sam closed his eyes, "We couldn't have stopped it because we didn't know what it was or how to kill it."

"That's right."

"But I will always wonder… What if she hadn't been alone? What if I'd have been there…"

"Sam, the 'what if's' of this business…"

"They'll drive you insane." The younger nodded. "I know." He sighed, "But seeing her burning… Having her die like that… I'll never be okay with it."

"That's all right," Dean's voice was soft. "We persevere. We get through."

"Persevere…" Sam mused, easing back against the seat.

"Yeah, but, Sammy…" The elder rolled his shoulders, taking a long breath of the sun-warmed air. "Persevere doesn't mean ignore. No more of this 'putting your troubles aside' crap. Shit like that doesn't work. It just lets things fester and get worse."

Sam looked to his brother, chewing his bottom lip in unease. He was still so concerned about Dean – in his own view, Sam's own problems seemed trivial in comparison. But he knew the elder wouldn't relent; Dean was permanently affixed in 'big brother mode' and the younger knew Dean would never stop worrying about him.

"I mean…" the elder continued, clearing his throat. "I'd rather just deal with your shit, than deal with it after it gets worse."

"Okay," Sam knew there was deep sentiment buried beneath his brother's curt phrases. "I guess… I'll just keep coming to you…"

"I want you to, you know?" Dean cleared his throat again, and Sam was surprised by how awkward the elder sounded. "And you… you _can_…"

"I know, Dean. And I will."

"All right. Good."

Sam took several long breaths, trying to gauge his brother before he spoke. "That's a two-way street, right?"

"Yeah, dude," the elder dismissed flippantly. "But, don't worry. I'm fine."

"Look… Dean… I…" Sam closed his eyes; afraid he would destroy the tentative bridges they'd built. "I want you to know… Um…"

"Spit it out, Sammy."

"It wouldn't have mattered when – or where I was – when I found out about Evan. If I was at school or not… I wouldn't blame you, Dean, because it wasn't your fault."

Sam watched his brother clamp his jaw tight, attention again set on the road; but he hadn't been told to stop talking, or to let it alone, so he pressed on quickly. "_Aramaic_, man… That's not…" He collected himself. "I don't know a word of it. And we both know what it's like translating text in a language you don't know."

The younger shifted, "I mean… You take one phrase out of context and it fucks up the whole thing. You interpret one word literally instead of figuratively and everything ends up meaning something completely different. If you don't know the connotations and the colloquialisms… It's impossible... And with outdated references… It's impossible. I mean… that's why Dad had us learn, actually _learn_ Latin…"

"Look, Sam… Just…"

"Please." Sam begged permission to finish – to finish saying what he should have said as soon as Dean had told him what had happened with the boy; when Sam had been unable to speak with shock and grief sealing his throat. "And then… once that demon was bound to that kid… What the hell else could you have done? You did what you had to when faced with an impossible scenario. You did the _only_ thing you could."

The younger took a deep breath, "And you saved who knows how many lives because you did."

"And a child still died."

"I know," Sam whispered. "And I'm sorry. But a lot more children would have died if that demon hadn't been stopped. You know that."

"I know…" the elder whispered.

Sam watched, guiltily, as his brother's knuckles turned white about the wheel. "I'm glad you told me…"

Dean chuckled lightly in the back of his throat. "No, you're not."

"Yeah. I really am." Sam caught the quick look his brother spared him. "You told me I could come to you. Anytime I need to, for anything I need."

"Well, yeah, of course…"

"And you told me," the younger pressed on quickly, "that you would never judge me. Never condemn or reproach me."

"No way, Sammy."

"Well, that echoes back from me to you as well. Okay?" Sam forced his lips to quirk slightly. "I mean, I know how you hate your 'chick flick' moments… But, like you said: 'chick flick' is getting all cushy over nothing. This shit isn't nothing."

"Who'd 'a thought you actually listened to me when I was talking to you, huh?"

"Yeah…" Sam pushed a hand through his hair. "I just… I know that what happened with Evan isn't the only weight you're carrying around. And you were right: I have no idea the kinds of things – the awful things – you've had to see and participate in…"

He picked at the cuff of his sweatshirt. "So, um, if you ever want to talk about them… Or just… get them off your chest… Day or night, man… I mean… I won't try to pry it out of you or anything… But if you ever _want_ to…"

"Yeah, Sam. I get it."

"I just want you to know I'm not going to judge or condemn either."

"I'm with yah, Sammy."

The younger sighed, rubbing his palms up the sleeves of his shirt. "Are you going to keep cutting?"

Dean shot the younger a strange look, "I gave you a promise."

"Yeah… I just thought…"

"Those promises don't fade in and out." The elder hit the gas, passing a campervan. "Every single one still stands." He glanced quickly to his brother. "So, I am still going to do _anything_ to stop this shit from breaking you. We _are_ going to get that son of a bitch demon that did this to you and to our family. And I – _we_ – are not going to be cutting; we'll use a different method to get through. We'll get through."

"Dean, you… you said the ice made it worse for you, right? That it made you want to cut more badly?"

"Yeah. But it works for you, so…"

"So we need to find another alternative. What else can we try?"

"Nothing." That clipped tone was back.

"Nothing because you don't know of anything else? Because I can look up…"

"Don't bother."

Sam frowned heavily, leaning back against the seat, "Why the hell not?"

"Because I don't deserve–" Dean cut himself off quickly, reigning in his emotions. "There shouldn't be an alternative for people like me."

"People like you?" the younger snorted, shaking his head. "Listen, you are a good person." He took a breath, "And the best man I know."

"You ought to meet more people."

"It wouldn't matter if I met every person on this planet."

The elder gave his brother an odd look. "You're biased."

"Maybe. But I stand by what I said." Sam wrung his hands, "Look, these things that have happened to you – whatever they are… And everything with Evan… It's horrible. But it wasn't your doing. It isn't right for you to blame yourself."

"What isn't right, is for you take fault in Jessica's death. Or for Dad to blame himself for Mom."

Sam frowned, "Dad _blames_ himself for Mom?"

"Of course he does. Always has."

Sam shook his head. "This family… Man…"

Dean didn't reply, fixing his concentration on the crowded highway.

"If nothing else, Dean," Sam piped up again, deciding he needed to leave the slate clean. "I can't have you trying to get yourself busted up on the job. Or in a bar fight. Or anywhere else. It's too dangerous." He lowered his eyes, "It's too fucking dangerous. I'd rather if you cut…"

Dean bit his tongue, pretending to focus on the road while images of Sam diving in front of him skirted the view behind his eyes. He could see, too vividly, the gnarled wound that had split his little brother from shoulder to elbow. Yes, it was too dangerous.

"It won't happen again. And I'm not going to cut."

"You made that promise to me. I… I can let you out of it…"

"No, Sam. It's time. I… I've wanted to stop for a while now. But it's…"

"It's hard."

"Yeah…" Dean sighed. "But, um… The cutting, it helps… But it's temporary and it gets in the way of the job. 'Cause if the cuts hurt or if they itch… it's a distraction and a hindrance."

"Yeah," Sam could easily relate to the statement.

"So, hold me to my word. I'm done. I'll stop."

"So, you're just going to go this cold turkey?"

Dean cast his brother a coy grin. "I'll get through."

"I want to help you through…"

"I know, Sammy. And I'll let you know when you can. But, look, man…" The elder flashed that same grin again. "Some of this shit, I gotta manage on my own. And you have to let me do that."

"Okay."

"Okay?" Dean raised an eyebrow, disbelievingly.

Sam smirked. "I'll try."

The elder nodded smugly, "That's what I thought."

The grin faded slowly from Sam's lips, the younger turning downcast eyes to the floor. "You know… Um… Sitting here… I just… I keep thinking about when I was sixteen… When I started… I was such an idiot."

"No, you weren't."

"I should have gone to you back then… Before things got so bad that I was slashing at myself in the school bathroom. Or… or after…"

"Yeah, Sam, you should have." Dean met his brother's look calmly. "But you were scared and I didn't know enough about what was going on with you – I didn't know anything about cutting. So, yes, you should have come to me. But I also should have approached you or, you know, let you know I was there…"

"I… um…" Sam turned to his brother, despite Dean watching the road. "I wanted to thank you… again. For all that you've done for me. And not just in regards to the cutting… Everything. Including all the things I'll never even know you've done."

Dean cast the younger a smug look, ready to make some wise crack, but before he spoke his expression sobered, the elder simply nodding once. "You're welcome. I'd do it again."

Sam smiled, "I know."

* * *

The warm wash of sunlight that flowed through the open window was soothing, Sam unaware it had lulled him into sleep until he was jolted awake by something plunking down into his lap. He started awake, looking around frantically, like a deer caught in the headlights, until his gaze found his brother smirking at him from the parking lot. 

"Morning, sunshine."

Sam just shook his head, taking a deep breath of country air. He looked down at the doughnut box in his lap. "What's this?"

"Lunch," Dean shrugged, moving around to the driver's side.

"We already had lunch!" Sam shouted at his brother's back.

The door swung open, "Dinner then."

"At three in the afternoon?"

The elder slid the keys into the ignition, grinning. "Snack, afternoon tea, early birthday gift, late Christmas present… Call it whatever the hell you want!"

Sam chuckled, flipping open the lid, expecting the box to be full of the cream-filled pastries he hated, but which Dean swore by. He blinked in surprise when he found a dozen of the pink-icing-topped doughnuts that had made his mouth water since he was boy. "Oh, sweet!"

Dean laughed, swinging the car back onto the freeway, window open to welcome the warm wind.

"Hey, man, thanks. But I can't eat all of these."

"Yeah and you better not," the elder quipped, reaching over to snatch one of the doughnuts, taking a bigger bite than he should have been able to.

"But, I thought…"

"Ah, hell, Sammy," he smirked. "Dad and I might have given you shit about your girly pink doughnuts… but we _always_ knew they were the best ones."

"Hah! I _told_ you!"

Dean looked over to his brother and smiled, "Doesn't mean you're not still girly, though."

Sam opened his mouth to retort, but every insult he knew escaped his mind. He'd seen it – that glimmer of the grin in his brother's eyes. Dean's shields had been retracted.

Sam smiled softly with the first taste of sugary, strawberry pink. They were going to be okay – not perfect; reality had no love of the story-book ending. They'd have moments – some good, some bad and some where pain and temptation would beckon in the gleam of cold, sharpened steel. But Sam knew they'd get through – they'd fall back on each other and get though.

Contentedly, the younger settled against the seat, letting the lingering taste of sweet glaze hover on his tongue. He smirked, "Man, you have icing all over your face." He laughed aloud. "Pink suits you."

"Dude!" Dean tried to lick the frosting from his lips, making the whole mess worse. "Shut up."

* * *

**A/N**: I've never put one of these at the end of anything before, but, this time, I felt it was somehow appropriate. This is the longest piece I've ever posted and it's due to the amazing support I've received. I want to thank everyone who reviewed, all who read through to the end and my _fantastic_ Beta. 

I know the subject of this story is somewhat controversial and, indeed, very personal. I've done all I can to present it in an open, un-biased, honest and realistic manner. Whether I succeeded or not is for you to judge.

There are getting to be more and more fics that address the matters presented in this story. It is my hope that the subject will be handled with the same care and consideration that I attempted. I'm also glad to be finishing and stepping back now, before this theme can become just the next 'phase.'

To anyone out there who is, or has been, a cutter, never forget that there is hope and there is help. You do not, and should not have to go through it alone.

And lastly, I'd love to know what you thought of the ending! I currently have no ideas for other stories, but if you have something I can adopt (and by adopt, I mean, steal) I would be ecstatic. Please do leave me a final note; good, bad or ugly.

- Aegroto


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